ING  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 


AMONG    ITALIAN    PEASANTS 


The  Evening  of  the  Festival. 


AMONG 
ITALIAN   PEASANTS 

Written  and  Illustrated  by 

TONY   CYRIAX 

With  an  Introduction  by 
MUIRHEAD  BONE 


NEW  YORK 

E.    P.    BUTTON    &    COMPANY 


Annex 


MSO 


PREFACE 

I  REMEMBER  once,  in  company  with  a  distinguished  critic,  leaning 
on  that  balcony  at  Settignano  which  spreads  out  before  one  the 
whole  Tuscan  plain  ;  but  though  the  day  was  lovely  and  the  year  at 
the  spring,  my  friend  ventured  to  make  a  grimace,  explaining  that 
too  many  maiden  ladies  had  wept  over  this  view  for  it  to  move  him 
now.  I  did  not  know  then  the  sketches  of  Tony  Cyriax,  and  so  had 
nothing  wherewith  to  comfort  him,  and,  in  fact,  I  knew  only  too 
depressingly  what  he  meant,  and  how  wellnigh  impossible  it  is  to 
see  Italy  in  a  fresh,  candid  way.  Imagine,  then,  the  pleasure  in 
making  the  acquaintance  of  the  artist  these  pages  introduce  to 
the  public,  for  I  think  she  possesses  this  gift  of  an  untouristlike 
vision  in  a  quite  definite  degree. 

If  we  consider  how  well  we  know  in  advance  what  an  artist  means 
by  his  sketches  of  Italy,  we  must  confess  when  these  pages  have 
been  well  studied,  how  little  we  could  have  anticipated  the  drawings 
of  Miss  Cyriax.  In  place  of  the  well-thumbed  repository  most  of  us 
find  it,  her  Italy  is  a  vivid,  hard,  strange  new  place,  peopled  by 
workmen  and  peasants,  who  have  a  fascination  about  them  that  the 
picturesque  could  never  give.  They  are  a  living  people,  who  go 
about  their  tasks  quite  oblivious  of  this  foreigner  among  them, 
who  must  surely  have  been  disembodied  to  seize  such  an  interior  as 
that  of  the  group  round  the  table,  the  unwinking  eye  of  the  lamp 


2038691 


vi  PREFACE 

keeping  company  with  the  man  turning  over  his  Corriere  for  the 
hundredth  time,  too  sleepy  to  give  up,  wistful  to  extract  the  pinch 
of  marrow  his  eye  noted  some  time  back.  How  perfectly  it  gives 
the  long-drawn-out  ennui  of  the  Italian  peasants'  night !  Or  '  After 
the  Funeral ' — is  it  not  perfect  in  its  way  for  humour  and  character  ? 
The  quarrel  which  has  broken  out  at  last,  as  every  one  knew 
it  would,  is  expressed  with  the  singleness  of  heart  and  the 
freshness  of  insight  which  we  associate  with  only  the  great  artists. 
It  is  a  disarmingly  small  sketch,  but  it  is  a  masterpiece  of  simplified 
character,  exactly  right  in  its  putting  down.  We  are  all  yearning 
for  the  genuine  naif.  This  artist  is  brimful  of  it. 

It  is  true  that  she  tells  us  nothing  we  did  not  know  about  Italy, 
but  Tony  Cyriax  has  the  great  merit  of  telling  us  for  the  first  time 
that  these  things  can  be  expressed  in  art,  and  that  their  effect  is  to 
create  stroke  by  stroke,  imperceptibly  almost,  the  real  Italy  which 
we  in  our  pictures  are  always,  somehow  or  other,  leaving  out.  She 
sees  the  'Young  Italy'  which  never  dies,  wringing  a  living  out  of 
their  picture-like  but  flinty  soil  only  by  incredible  patience  and 
hard  work.  We  all  turn  aristocrats  when  we  cross  the  Alps.  There 
is  a  rare  temper  displayed  throughout  these  sketches,  breathing  a 
noble  democracy  and  sympathy  which  entitles  Miss  Cyriax  to  be 
considered  a  new  personality  in  art. 

MUIRHEAD  BONE. 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGB 

I.  SAN  LORENZO  I 

II.  THE  DANCE  AT  THE  INN  15 

III.  THE  VILLAGE  28 

IV.  THE   RIDGE   OF  HOUSES  38 
V.  CHARCOAL  BURNERS  50 

VI.  THE   POLICE   COURT  65 

VII.  RAIMONDO  83 

VIII.  CAVALLERI  95 

IX.  LIME  BURNERS  IOQ 

X.  THE  FESTIVAL  OF  THE  MADONNA  120 

XI.  THE  MOUNTAIN  138 

XII.  CORNIGHE  155 

XIII.  HAYMAKERS  173 

XIV.  HAILSTONES  187 
XV.  BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE  194 

XVI.  SAN  LORENZO  AGAIN  22O 

XVII.  THE  LAST  DAYS  238 

XVIII.  AMERICA  257 


vfi 


COLOURED   ILLUSTRATIONS 

The  Evening  of  the  Festival  Frontispiece 

Riccardo  and  Rosina  /«"•«  /«e«      4 

Raimondo  and  Bigi  by  the  Fontana  „         84 

Silkworms  „         9^ 

The  di  Marchesis  at  Dinner  „       17° 


BLACK  AND  WHITE  ILLUSTRATIONS 

An  Evening  at  San  Lorenzo  „ 

Bortolo  Stirring  the  Polenta  „  12 

Sunday  at  the  Inn  „  32 

Cristofolo  Crossing  the  Ridge  of  Houses  „  40 

The  Mourners  „  48 

An  Altercation  „  100 

Ghita  „  130 

Loads  of  Hay  »  174 

Filip's  Niece  „  200 

Nocturnal  Visitors  „  236 

Teschini  Makes  a  Speech  „  244 


IX 


O  cari  giovanotti, 
Domani  dobbiamo  partire; 
A  costa  di  morire, 
In  America  voglio  andar. 
Quando  sard  in  America, 
Quando  sard  in  America, 
Quando  sard  in  America, 
L'amante  la  qui  sterrd. 
Quando  avrd  qui  stato, 
Quando  avro  qui  stato, 
Quando  avrd  qui  stato, 
In  Italia  riturnerd. 
Quando  sard  in  Italia, 
Quando  sard  in  Italia, 
Quando  sard  in  Italia, 
L'amante  la  sposerd. 
Quando  avrd  sposato, 
Quando  avrd  sposato, 
Quando  avrd  sposato, 
In  America  turnerd. 


Oh,  dear  boys  and  girls, 
To-morrow  we  must  part; 
Rather  than  starve  here, 
I  must  go  to  America. 
When  I  am  in  America, 
When  I  am  in  America, 
When  I  am  in  America, 
I  leave  my  darling  here. 
After  I  have  been  there, 
After  I  have  been  there, 
After  I  have  been  there, 
I  will  come  back  again. 
When  I  am  back  in  Italy, 
When  I  am  back  in  Italy, 
When  I  am  back  in  Italy, 
My  darling  I  will  wed. 
But  after  we  are  married, 
But  after  we  are  married, 
But  after  we  are  married, 
I  must  go  back  to  America. 


xii 


CHAPTER  I 

SAN  LORENZO 

EARLY  one  morning  I  stood  with  Rosina,  waiting  by  the  fontana. 
It  was  five  o'clock  and  we  were  late,  too  late  to  get  as  far  as  the 
church  in  time  for  the  service.  That  was  why  we  waited  at  the 
fontana,  for  the  procession  would  pass  there  and  we  could  join  in 
at  the  rear. 

The  priest  was  going  to  bless  the  fields  at  the  Campo  Santo  above 
San  Lorenzo.  To-morrow  the  ceremony  would  take  place  on  the 
farther  side  of  the  village,  and  the  next  day  somewhere  else,  and  so 
on  for  the  rest  of  the  week,  till  all  the  fields  had  received  their 
blessing. 

It  was  March.  Trees  were  budding  and  in  sheltered  places  were 
the  first  spring  flowers.  The  almond  trees  were  in  blossom.  Water 
rushed  down  the  mountain  and  tumbled  into  the  lake  below.  Our 
hearts  were  full  of  hope  for  the  summer. 

The  sun  was  not  yet  very  high  above  Monte  Moro  across  the  lake. 
It  was  still  in  shadow  with  white  mist  clinging  to  it  in  places.  On 
our  side  the  air  was  clear,  and  the  sunshine,  pale  and  cool,  made  the 
morning  lovely. 

Some  women  were  washing  clothes  in  the  large  tanks  of  the 
fontana,  and  we  spoke  with  them.  Rosina  always  had  a  lot  to  say, 
and  there  was  plenty  of  time,  the  procession  had  only  just  started. 


2  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

We  could  hear  the  chanting,  but  a  hillock  and  olive-trees  screened 
the  singers  from  our  sight.  At  that  place  the  mountain  was  one 
vast  slope  down  from  the  rampart  of  crags  at  the  top  to  where  we 
stood,  and  then  it  broke  and  fell  down  to  the  lake  in  a  muddle  of 
precipices,  hillocks,  and  gullies,  all  at  different  heights  and 
angles. 

The  chanting  came  nearer.  It  was  a  mournful  minor  sound, 
rising  and  falling  like  a  wail.  It  made  me  think  of  death.  The 
procession  came  into  view  round  the  corner.  The  priest  headed  it 
with  two  boys  carrying  the  book  and  censer  and  darkly  clad  figures 
followed,  walking  two  and  two.  They  looked  so  tiny  in  the  vast 
place — so  pitiful,  and  the  song  was  so  sad.  It  had  nothing  of  the 
joy  of  fertility  or  of  hope  hi  it.  Sadly  and  slowly  they  came. 

The  women  who  had  been  washing  hid  behind  the  pillars,  and 
Rosina  and  I  joined  in  at  the  rear  of  the  procession.  It  went  on 
down  the  road,  and  then  turned  up  a  little  grassy  path  leading  to 
the  Campo  Santo.  We  stood  or  knelt  amongst  the  nameless  graves 
whilst  the  priest  recited  the  prayers.  Some  of  the  old  women  fingered 
their  beads,  and  heads  were  bent  in  devotion.  Then  the  priest 
read  from  the  book  which  a  boy  held  open,  and  then  he  sprinkled 
the  holy  water  and  prayed.  The  other  little  boy  swung  the  censer 
and  puffs  of  incense  rose  up  in  the  still  morning  air. 

Then  there  was  a  stir  and  the  procession  reformed  to  retrace 
its  steps  back  to  the  church.  The  same  sad  Litany  was  chanted 
again,  and  they  went  on  singing  until  once  more  in  the  twilight  of 
the  church. 

Rosina  and  I  did  not  walk  farther  than  the  gate  of  San  Lorenzo, 
where  we  turned  in  and  went  back  to  the  farm.  I  felt  saddened 


SAN  LORENZO  3 

and  forgot  about  the  lovely  morning.  Neither  of  us  spoke,  both 
listening  to  the  distant  singing. 

At  last  I  said :   'Whatever  does  it  mean?' 

'Signora/  answered  Rosina,  'we  pray  that  the  crops  shall  not 
be  spoilt  by  the  hail.  In  these  parts  we  have  great  hailstorms  which 

ruin  the  harvest  .  .  .  and  then  we  starve/ 

•  •••••••• 

San  Lorenzo  was  a  large  farmhouse  built  on  a  piece  of  level 
ground  at  the  top  of  a  precipice.  It  was  a  halfway  house  between 
the  town  on  the  lake  shore  below  and  the  little  village  higher  up, 
but  it  was  much  nearer  the  village.  For  many  years  Rosina  had 
had  a  licence  and  sold  wine.  But  a  year  ago  she  had  given  it  up. 
No  one,  however,  paid  much  attention  to  that,  and  Rosina  gaily 
served  those  she  could  trust  not  to  tell.  The  villagers  came  very 
often  to  drink  or  to  talk,  and  there  was  continual  coming  and  going 
and  lively  altercation.  I  often  sat  hi  the  kitchen  listening  to 
peasants  talking,  or  to  hear  what  Rosina  had  to  say  about  them 
when  they  were  gone.  But  on  this  particular  afternoon  we  were 
discussing  Riccardo,  her  youngest  son. 

He  was  washing  up.  Rosina,  as  usual,  had  been  abusing  him, 
and  I  had  taken  his  part.  She  looked  at  him  critically. 

'And  you  really  think,'  she  said,  'that  Riccardo  is  a  good  boy?' 

'Of  course  I  do,  but  he  is  young,  and  you  can't  expect  him  to 
work  all  day/ 

'But  he  doesn't  work,  he  dawdles.  Look  at  him  now.  He  has 
been  two  hours  washing  up  those  dishes,  I  could  have  done  it  all 
myself  hi  twenty  minutes.  But  Riccardo,  can't  you  hurry — your 
father  is  wanting  you  in  the  field/ 


4  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

Riccardo  turned  back  to  his  work,  but  did  not  hurry.  He  washed 
each  plate  with  deliberation,  rinsed  and  placed  it  on  the  side  table 
to  dry. 

His  mother,  hi  a  state  of  exasperation,  had  been  calling  him  all 
the  names  she  could  think  of. 

He  had  merely  turned  his  head  round,  saying  in  a  most  idiotic 
manner,  '  He-he  ! ' 

It  was  the  last  straw,  and  Rosina,  furious,  had  slipped  off  her 
wooden-soled  shoe  and  had  given  his  shoulders  some  hard  thuds 
with  it. 

Poor  little  Riccardo.  Life  was  one  succession  of  tasks  done 
unwillingly.  If  it  wasn't  his  mother  urging  him  on  indoors  it  was 
his  father  calling  outside.  It  was  Riccardo  here,  Riccardo  there, 
and  Riccardo  himself  somewhere  else,  sublimely  doing  nothing. 
He  never  played  or  did  things  for  his  own  amusement,  he  just 
loafed. 

I  thought  Riccardo  a  little  stupid,  but  a  dear  boy.  He  was  only 
twelve. 

'If  you  think,'  went  on  Rosina,  'that  he  really  is  good  and 
capable,  why  not  take  him  to  England  as  your  servant?  We  should 
not  expect  any  wages  for  him,  it  would  be  sufficient  if  you  fed  and 
clothed  him.  We  are  so  poor  we  cannot  buy  proper  food  and  seldom 
eat  meat.  The  children  do  not  grow  up  strong.  It  is  polenta — for 
every  meal  polenta.' 

She  had  grown  quite  pathetic.  Riccardo  had  finished  washing 
up,  and  was  scrubbing  the  sink. 

'No,  Rosina,  I  do  not  want  a  servant,  nor  can  I  take  Riccardo 
to  England.  But  I  do  believe  there  is  good  in  the  boy.  Why  don't 


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SAN  LORENZO  5 

you  send  him  away  from  home  for  a  bit?  You  know  you  can't 
manage  him,  perhaps  he  would  get  on  better  amongst  strangers.' 

'He  does  not  know  how  well  off  he  is  at  home,  signora.  But 
some  one  is  calling.' 

She  went  to  the  open  door  and  returned  for  a  glass  and  a  measure 
of  wine. 

I  went  out  to  see  whom  she  was  serving. 

A  fair-haired  peasant  had  just  drained  the  glass,  given  it  to 
Rosina,  and  risen  to  his  feet.  He  was  a  big,  strong  fellow.  He  bent 
down  for  his  load,  a  large  truss  of  hay  carried  on  the  back,  and  kept 
in  position  by  an  attached  stick  held  over  the  right  shoulder.  With 
him  was  a  small  boy,  also  with  a  little  load. 

We  stood  watching  them  go.  The  man  did  not  walk,  but  went 
with  a  slow,  springy  run. 

'Rosina,'  I  said  suddenly,  'that  must  be  very  heavy ' 

'Giuseppe!'  she  shouted,  'how  much  hay  have  you?' 

'Seventy-five  kilos,'  he  shouted  back. 

'He  has  carried  it  up  from  the  town.' 

'But  impossible — it  is  too  heavy,'  I  called. 

He  swung  round,  and  so  bent  was  he  I  could  hardly  see  his  face. 

'Signora  !'  he  shouted,  'what  can  a  poor  man  do?'  If  the  load 
had  let  him  he  would  have  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

I  knew  the  road,  which  zigzagged  from  the  town  below  to  the 
village  above  us.  It  went  up,  up,  up  at  an  uncomfortably  steep 
angle  with  only  a  few  yards  of  level  walking  just  below  San  Lorenzo. 
In  places  it  was  shockingly  bad  and  there  was  very  little  shade.  No 
horse  and  cart  could  travel  up  it.  Oxen  wagons  could,  and  donkeys. 

The  whole  walk  took  quite  two  hours. 

I.P.  B 


6  AMONG   ITALIAN   PEASANTS 

I  stood  thinking  of  Giuseppe,  waiting  for  him  to  come  into  sight 
on  the  piece  of  road  above  the  fontana. 

The  sun  had  dipped  behind  the  mountain  edge,  and  I  walked 
round  the  house  into  the  narrow  gorge.  A  little  stream  rushed  down 
over  stones  and  the  grass  was  dotted  with  primroses.  The  steep 
terraces  were  fringed  with  laurel  bushes,  and  one  thousand  feet 
below,  nearly  under  foot,  was  the  lake,  dark  peacock  in  the  evening 
shadow. 

It  was  always  very  peaceful  there. 

Up  on  the  mountain  I  could  hear  the  children  calling  the  goats 
home. 

A  man  passed  along  the  ridge  above  me.  It  was  Renzi  Gheco 
going  to  the  spring  to  fill  his  water-bottle.  Dear  grubby  Gheco, 
he  was  not  beautiful  and  his  figure  was  that  of  a  large-sized  three- 
year-old  child.  He  sometimes  came  in  of  an  evening  and  would 
sit  by  the  fire,  playing  the  accordion  with  an  expression  of  ecstatic 
fulfilment.  He  did  not  play  well.  What  chords  of  his  soul  were  stirred 
by  those  sounds,  I  do  not  know,  but  I  felt  it  was  something  so  holy 
that  it  must  not  be  joked  about,  even  in  his  absence. 

We  all  liked  Gheco,  he  was  a  good-natured  fellow,  honest  but 
very  simple.  His  cottage  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  gorge  from 
San  Lorenzo,  and  there  he  lived  with  his  mother  and  their  servant. 

La  Macuccia  was  the  Mrs  Malaprop  of  the  country-side,  and  to 
the  funny  things  she  said  was  coupled  the  most  horrible  voice  a 
human  being  was  ever  cursed  with.  It  might  be  described  as  a 
rasping  croak,  but  such  a  description  still  leaves  the  worst  to  the 
imagination. 


SAN   LORENZO  7 

For  two  whole  hours  that  morning  she  had  shouted  at  Bortolo 
over  the  wall.  The  flow  of  words  had  been  astounding,  and  her 
voice  rose  and  fell  without  a  pause  for  Bortolo  to  put  in  a  word. 
He,  poor  tried  man,  by  nature  tolerant  and  polite,  so  far  forgot 
himself  as  to  try  to  outshout  her  when  her  remarks  became  too 
outrageous. 

My  irritation  at  the  interminable  clatter  had  been  mitigated  by 
amusement  at  Bortolo's  ineffectual  repartee. 

At  last  he  retreated  and  came  indoors,  hot  and  agitated. 

'  Oh,  what  a  woman  ! '  he  had  said. 

'What  is  it  all  about?' 

'Signora,  there  is  a  path  through  her  fields  to  the  Campo  Santo. 
The  procession  passed  along  it  when  the  priest  blessed  the  fields. 
It  is  my  duty  to  see  that  the  path  is  kept  tidy  and  the  grass  mown. 
I  cut  it  this  morning  and  carried  the  grass  home.  La  Macuccia  says 
the  grass  belongs  to  her.  But  it  is  my  reward  for  keeping  the  place 
in  order.  She  is  crazy.  Ecco.' 

'I  never  understand  one  word  of  what  she  says/  I  answered. 

'I  never  listen,'  said  Rosina.  'She  never  stops  when  once  she 
starts,  and  there  is  no  opportunity  for  an  answer.  Hasn't  she  got 
a  beautiful  voice?' 

She  had.     I  could  hear  her  now  talking  to  the  servant. 

I  walked  back  to  the  house.    Rosina  was  at  the  door. 

'Have  you  seen  Riccardo?'  she  asked. 

I  hadn't. 

'He  ought  to  have  come  long  ago  to  milk  the  cow.  Ah,  there 
he  is.  Riccardo,  make  haste.' 

He  came  running  to  me  and  flung  his  arms  round  my  neck. 


8  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

'Lovely  signora/  he  cried,  'give  me  just  one  kiss,  and  I  will  be 
happy.' 

He  had  such  an  enchanting  smile. 

When  at  last  Castelli  Bortolo  came  hi  from  work  we  sat  round 
the  fire  and  talked.  He  took  great  pains  to  make  himself  understood, 
for  my  knowledge  of  Italian  was  limited,  but  I  soon  found  that  his 
was  also.  A  great  many  of  his  words  and  expressions  were  neither 
in  the  dictionary  nor  the  grammar. 

Rosina  would  come  to  my  rescue. 

'My  husband  is  ignorant,'  she  would  say,  'he  talks  the  dialect 
to  you.  When  he  says  "  el  piru  "  he  means  "  la  forchetta."  Ecco.' 

It  was  very  confusing. 

Amongst  themselves  the  peasants  always  talked  the  dialect. 
To  me  they  talked  what  they  thought  was  Italian,  but  it  was  nothing 
better  than  dialect  diluted  with  Italian.  Rosina,  who  had  formerly 
been  hi  service  in  some  of  the  large  towns,  was  one  of  the  few  who 
could  talk  Italian  well. 

It  was  not  very  long  before  I  began  to  study  the  dialect.  At 
first  Bortolo  thought  it  beneath  the  dignity  of  a  lady  to  learn  the 
language  of  the  poor,  but  as  I  persisted  he  grew  interested,  and 
taught  me  what  he  could.  I  wrote  down  the  strange  words,  and  in 
time  I  could  understand  and  make  myself  understood.  But  I  never 
stopped  marvelling  at  the  dialect.  It  had  a  small  vocabulary,  but 
the  words  were  a  jumble  from  everywhere.  The  greater  part  of 
them  were  abbreviated  Italian  words  or  disfigured  derivations.  I 
never  knew  words  could  deteriorate  so.  But  not  all  the  words  were 
Italian.  Many  were  Latin,  others  like  French,  Rumanian,  German, 


SAN  LORENZO  9 

and  Russian.  The  more  I  studied  the  dialect  the  more  interesting  it 
became. 

Bortolo  had  been  four  years  in  California,  but  he  showed  no  trace 
of  any  Americanism.  Had  he  not  told  me  I  would  not  have  guessed 
it.  The  returned  emigrants  of  other  nationalities  I  have  seen  have 
always  something  American  about  them.  Not  so  Bortolo;  he  went 
and  returned  the  same  good  old  Bortolo. 

He  would  tell  me  of  the  life  in  California  and  the  gold  mine,  and 
the  long  journey  with  a  three  days'  delay  in  Paris.  And  how 
frightened  he  had  been  of  the  traffic,  especially  of  the  motors,  so  that 
he  had  never  walked  farther  than  the  end  of  the  block.  He  had 
felt  much  safer  indoors. 

He  liked  to  air  his  English  on  me;  but  his  vocabulary  was  limited, 
and  the  few  words  he  remembered  epitomised  those  four  years  of 
his  life.  He  could  say  :  eight  hour  an'  no  more,  job,  boss,  all  de 
sam',  maybe,  big,  dog,  bread  and  cheese,  beans,  drink,  go  'ome, 
sleep,  shoot,  and,  of  course,  dollar  and  cent,  both  of  which  he  only 
used  in  the  singular. 

One  evening  he  said  'Wammair.' 

I  was  stupid  and  couldn't  understand.  The  whole  family  waited 
breathless  to  know  whether  the  mistake  was  his  or  mine. 

'Wammair,'  repeated  Bortolo,  'if  two  men  were  looking  at  some- 
thing and  you  were  passing,  what  would  you  say  ? ' 

At  last  I  guessed.     '  What's  the  matter  ! ' 

Bortolo  was  delighted.  'I  am  so  glad  you  understand,  but  in 
America  we  say  "  wammair."  There  is  a  difference  between  English 
and  American,  as  you  doubtless  notice,'  he  added  loftily,  for  the 
benefit  of  the  listeners. 


io  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

But  usually  there  were  no  listeners.  Riccardo  had  been  over- 
powered with  sleep  long  ago,  and  was  fast  asleep  on  Paolino's 
shoulder.  Paolino  was  fast  asleep  too.  He  was  the  elder  son,  a 
miniature  Bortolo  in  every  way. 

Little  Pina  was  asleep  with  her  head  on  the  table,  Rosina  never 
dreaming  of  putting  her  to  bed  before  she  fell  asleep.  Halfway 
through  the  evening  she  would  awaken  her  and  insist  on  the  sleepy 
child  saying  good-night.  Often  as  not  she  stubbornly  refused,  and 
Rosina  would  cuff  her  until  she  was  sufficiently  awake  to  see  her 
error.  Then  she  would  go  whining  up  to  bed,  Rosina  following  with 
a  candle  and  an  enormous  warming-pan.  When  she  came  down, 
she  would  usually  go  to  sleep  herself,  leaning  on  the  table. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  and  I  said  I  must  go  to  bed.  Bortolo  would 
not  hear  of  it — it  was  too  early. 

'But  aren't  you  tired?'  I  asked.  'You  have  been  picking  olives 
all  day,  I  am  sure  you  get  up  very  early/ 

'I  got  up  at  four,  signora.' 

Rosina  raised  her  head  from  the  table  and  tried  to  open  her  eyes, 
but  the  lamp  dazzled  them. 

'Signora/  she  said  with  closed  eyes,  'think  of  it,  he  never  sleeps 
more  than  five  hours.  And  I,  I  can  sleep  eight  or  even  nine/ 

She  dropped  her  head  on  her  arms. 

'  And  do  you  never  sleep  in  the  day  ? '  I  asked.  '  Do  you  work 
from  four  until  eight  at  night?' 

'Yes,  signora,  I  sleep,  perhaps,  if  it  is  hot  after  dinner ' 

He  lit  my  candle  and  stood  holding  it. 

'Signora  Antonia,  a  favour/    He  bowed  like  a  nobleman. 


SAN  LORENZO 


ii 


'When  you  get  upstairs,  signora,  and  I  know  you  will  have  one 
window  open,  would  you  mind  opening  the  one  on  that  side  instead 
of  the  one  here  ? '  He  pointed  to  the  walls. 

'But  why?  I  open  that  one  because  of  the  draught.  The  other 
window  is  just  by  my  head,  and  I  might  catch  a  chill.' 

'But  it  is  from  this  window  that  you  will  catch  the  chill.  The 
mountain  air  is  unhealthy — and  that  window  opens  more  towards 
the  mountain.  If  I,  signora,  slept  with  that  window  open,  I  would 
be  dead  or  catch  a  cold/ 

'And  you  really  believe  the  air  is  different  on  the  other  side  of 
the  house?' 

'Signora,  there  is  a  great  difference.' 

'But  you  know  I've  had  that  window  open  all  the  time ' 

'I  have  thought  of  it  every  night.' 

' and  both  of  us  keep  as  well  as  can  be.' 

'You  are  both  as  strong  as  soldiers.' 

Rosina  had  roused  herself  and  was  shaking  Paolino  and  Riccardo. 
Yawning  and  stretching  they  went  off  to  bed  in  a  half-dazed  con- 
dition. 

Bortolo  handed  me  the  candle  and  bade  me  good-night. 

As  I  went  up  he  turned  to  Rosina  and  said  confidentially  : — 

"These  English  seem  able  to  stand  anything.' 

Then  he  took  up  the  newspaper  and  put  on  his  spectacles. 

Rosina  had  the  habit  of  treating  Bortolo  as  if  he  was  a  fool.  She 
was  quicker  than  he  was,  and  his  slowness  irritated  her.  He  was 
a  refined,  thoughtful  man,  perhaps  too  lenient  of  others'  failings  to 
be  quite  just.  I  never  heard  him  speak  ill  of  any  one  or  swear,  unless 
occasion  demanded.  Rosina  was  quite  different.  She  was  impulsive 


12 

and  easily  shouted,  and  when  in  a  fury  her  tongue  would  get  the 
upper  hand  and  her  words  became  foul  and  unreasonable.  But 
that  did  not  happen  often  and  the  coarseness  that  was  always  there 
lay  hidden.  She  was  very  capable  and  her  advice  was  worth  listening 
to.  If  anything  was  wrong  among  her  set  in  the  village,  they  would 
come  to  Rosina,  and  she  knew  exactly  what  ought  to  be 
done. 

Perhaps  Bortolo  was  too  easy-going  and  contented.  His  soul 
was  wrapped  up  in  the  fields.  He  gloried  in  the  growth  and  vigour 
of  his  plants;  working  early  and  late. 

He  seldom  came  indoors  except  to  snatch  a  meal  and  also  to  cook 
it.  For  the  men  usually  prepare  the  polenta.  It  is  made  of  maize- 
meal  sprinkled  into  boiling,  salted  water,  and  it  is  so  stiff  to  stir 
and  in  such  a  large  cauldron,  that  it  is  man's  work  to  prepare  it. 
When  cooked  it  is  tipped  out  of  the  cauldron  on  to  a  board,  and  stands 
there  very  much  like  a  bright  yellow  suet  pudding.  Rosina  would 
cut  it  into  slices  with  a  thread.  I  think  Bortolo  had  polenta  for 
every  meal.  In  the  morning  he  broke  it  into  his  soup,  at  midday 
it  was  cooked  and  eaten  in  large  quantities  with  a  scrap  of  meat  or 
fish,  for  supper  he  broke  it  into  his  soup  again,  and  if  he  was  ever 
hungry  in  between  whiles,  he  would  eat  it  cold.  Rosina  shared 
any  tit -bits  with  the  children.  He  would  protest  if  she  put  anything 
'  nice '  on  his  plate.  The  only  thing  I  ever  saw  him  eat  with  pleasure, 
besides  polenta,  was  green  vegetables. 

Paolino  was  his  constant  companion,  but  he  did  not  seem  to 
care  so  much  for  his  other  children.  Riccardo  was  a  continual  source 
of  annoyance  to  him,  he  could  not  understand  that  love  for  loafing. 
It  was  an  annoyance,  too,  to  Rosina,  and  I'm  sure  Riccardo  made 


SAN  LORENZO  13 

her  suffer,  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  she  loved  him  more  than  all 
the  others.  Riccardo  was  the  apple  of  her  eye.  Neither  seemed 
to  care  so  much  for  little  Pina.  Perhaps  it  was  difficult  to  love  her. 
She  was  a  trivial  little  thing  with  a  tiny  nose. 

I  was  awakened  by  a  roaring  sound.  I  sat  up  in  the  dark  and 
listened.  A  door  banged.  The  windows  rattled. 

It  was  the  wind  roaring  down  the  mountain-side.  I  quickly 
closed  the  window. 

In  the  dim  light  without  I  could  see  trees  bowed  down,  lashed 
by  their  own  branches.  Olive-trees  stood  like  ghosts,  white  with 
upturned  leaves.  The  long  grass  bent  and  lifted. 

I  was  very  frightened.  I  had  never  experienced  such  wind 
before.  The  house  staggered  as  each  blast  tugged  it;  it  creaked 
and  groaned.  Each  moment  I  expected  we  should  be  blown  along 
the  grass  and  dropped  down  the  precipice  beyond.  Nothing  seemed 
impossible  as  it  blustered  round  the  house. 

My  door  flew  open. 

Almost  immediately  Rosina,  in  fluttering  nightdress,  rushed 
into  the  room.  She  opened  my  window  and  closed  the  outside 
shutters.  Then  she  hastened  away. 

I  felt  still  more  frightened.  My  room  was  now  dark.  It  was  like 
a  prison  and  I  felt  out  of  contact  with  what  was  going  on  without. 
The  noise  was  terrific.  I  would  have  opened  the  shutters  if  I  had 
dared,  but  if  the  house  were  blown  inside-out  Rosina  would  say  it 
was  my  fault.  My  room  was  really  rather  sheltered,  it  was  the  other 
side  which  got  the  full  force  of  the  gale. 

I  sat  up  and  listened,  expecting  I  don't  know  what.     I  firmly 


i4  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

made  up  my  mind  never  to  stay  on  a  mountain  again  if  I  should 
survive  the  night.  .  .  . 

Then  came  a  prolonged  crash  that  dominated  everything.  I 
thought  it  was  a  boulder  that  had  tumbled  down  from  above  and 
smashed  the  wall.  But  the  wall  remained  standing  and  nothing 
happened. 

I  heard  voices,  but  Rosina  did  not  come  to  my  room,  so  I  con- 
cluded nothing  serious  had  happened  after  all. 

I  went  on  listening  to  the  wind,  which  seemed  a  little  less  awful 
after  the  crash,  or  was  it  really  less  wild?  Yes,  the  gusts  were  less 
violent — and  with  the  same  abruptness  with  which  it  had  begun, 
it  died  down  to  a  gentle  breeze. 

I  opened  the  window  and  saw  the  calm  stars  above.  The  lake 
was  in  a  turmoil.  The  sound  of  waves  came  up  to  me,  an  echo  of  the 
stormy  air. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   DANCE   AT  THE   INN 

I  WAS  sitting  on  the  trunk  of  the  olive-tree  that  had  fallen  against 
the  house  and  had  frightened  me  so  last  night.  Bortolo  and  Paolino 
had  been  chopping  off  the  smaller  branches. 

It  was  a  lovely  calm  morning.  Everything  was  peaceful  and 
Sunday-like. 

A  man  and  woman  had  called  in  for  a  glass  of  wine  and  gone  on 
to  the  town. 

Riccardo  had  not  returned.  Rosina  was  getting  anxious,  but  she 
did  so  every  day  at  about  half-past  nine,  and  remained  in  a  state 
of  agitation  until  Riccardo  arrived,  usually  at  eleven  or  even  half- 
past.  He  carried  the  milk  down  every  morning  at  five-thirty,  and 
in  all  reason  ought  to  be  back  by  nine  o'clock.  What  he  did  during 
those  two  hours  I  never  rightly  knew,  but  I  am  afraid  he  loafed  on 
the  quay  or  by  cafe  doors,  listening  to  men  talk. 

Rosina  came  out  to  look  up  the  path  again  and  make  a  gesture 
of  despair. 

'I  told  him  to  be  early.  The  dinner  will  never  be  cooked  if  he 
does  not  bring  the  meat  soon.' 

Presently  she  came  out  again. 

'Signora,  they  are  dancing  at  the  village  to-night.  Would  you 
like  to  go?' 

'Yes,  I  think  so.     Where  is  it  to  be?' 

15 


16  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

'At  the  house  of  Nino.    It  is  the  inn.' 

'And  you  think  I  shall  go  dancing  in  an  inn  on  Sunday  night?' 

'But  why  not?' 

I  could  think  of  no  reason. 

'Tell  me,  Rosina,  will  there  be  nobody  who  has  had  too  much 
wine?' 

'You  need  have  no  fear,'  she  answered,  'at  Campia  they  are  all 
good  boys,  bravi  ragazzi,  it  will  be  all  right.  I  will  go  with  you. 
If  you  do  not  like  it  we  can  come  home.  Riccardo  and  Paolino  will 
come  as  well.  Bortolo  will  look  after  the  house.' 

We  arranged  to  go.  I  had  become  accustomed  to  follow  Rosina's 
advice,  for  it  had  been  invaluable.  She  knew  what  to  do  and  when 
to  do  it. 

At  last  Riccardo  came  down  the  path. 

'Ugly  creature/  she  greeted  him,  'did  I  not  tell  you  to  hurry? 
You  will  be  late  for  mass.  Here  is  the  signora  waiting  for  her  letters. 
You  deserve  to  be  beaten.' 

'There  is  no  post/  said  Riccardo,  entirely  unperturbed,  and  went 
in  to  put  down  the  baskets.  Then  followed  the  inevitable  loud- 
voiced  altercation.  Rosina  looked  at  the  purchases  and  asked  the 
prices.  Riccardo  could  only  remember  them  when  driven  very  hard, 
and  the  butcher's  ticket  was  invariably  in  the  pocket  he  had  forgotten 
to  search. 

In  ten  minutes  it  was  over,  and  he  came  out  smiling. 

'Lovely  signora/  he  cried,  capering  towards  me,  blithe  as  a 
kitten,  'give  me  a  kiss  and  perhaps  I  will  give  you  a  letter/ 

'No,  no,  give  me  my  letter/  and  I  caught  his  arm  and  felt  in  his 
pockets.  There  was  nothing  in  them. 


THE  DANCE   AT  THE   INN  17 

'Come,  my  letter/  I  said. 

With  a  mischievous  look  he  unbuttoned  his  coat,  and  there, 
between  his  braces  and  his  heart,  was  a  letter  for  me.  I  took  it. 

'The  kiss,  signora?' 

'No,  you  can't  have  kisses  always,'  I  answered,  'you  know  you 
ought  to  have  given  me  my  post  at  once.' 

His  smile  faded,  and  he  lounged  against  the  house,  hands  deep 
in  pockets,  shoulders  up,  and  sulked  until  Rosina  found  him.  She 
soon  sent  him  off  to  get  ready  for  mass,  and  I  could  hear  them  talking 
in  the  bedroom. 

Bortolo  had  gone  on,  but  the  others  were  waiting.  Pina  strutted 
like  a  peacock  in  her  best  dress,  and  Paolino  was  ill  at  ease.  He 
thought  his  new  shirt  was  rather  too  blue,  and  kept  his  coat  tightly 
buttoned. 

At  last  they  started,  Paolino  and  Pina  holding  my  little  girl's 
two  hands.  Riccardo  brought  up  the  rear,  still  sulking.  Rosina 
and  I  were  left  at  home. 

'What  is  to  be  done  with  a  boy  like  that,  signora,  he  refused 
absolutely  to  wash  his  neck.  I  beat  him  with  a  stick,  but  it  was  no 
good  and  there  was  no  time — I  had  to  let  him  go,  signora,  like  that.' 
She  sighed.  'He  is  a  great  sorrow  to  his  parents.' 

1  had  walked  through  the  village  several  times,  but  the  outside 
had  given  me  no  idea  of  what  its  inner  life  might  be.  There  were 
no  windows  low  enough  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  room  and  the  gardens 
were  walled  in.  Very  few  houses  were  on  a  level  with  the  road. 
Steps  led  up  to  most  of  them,  and  these  without  doubt  had  stables 
on  the  ground  floor,  as  the  all  too  frequent  manure  heaps  testified. 


1 8  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

Dark  tunnels  and  crooked  passages  led  to  courtyards  at  the  back 
and  more  manure  heaps  and  other  houses,  for  the  place  seemed  a 
perfect  maze  of  planless  construction.  At  least  it  seemed  so  to  me, 
who  had  not  ventured  far  off  the  road.  There  was  a  little  piazza,  and 
the  church  stood  at  one  end  on  the  very  edge  of  the  cliff,  and  a  new 
wide  road  led  back  along  the  edge  behind  the  houses  and  joined  the 
street  again.  The  other  road  led  up  the  mountain. 

Children  had  fled  into  doorways  at  my  approach,  and  the  few 
grown-up  inhabitants  who  had  not  followed  them,  had  saluted  me 
with  such  polite  indifference  that  I  felt  completely  out  of  touch 
with  them.  It  was  an  uncomfortable  feeling. 

Apparently  no  one  was  hi  the  least  interested.  No  head  poked 
out  of  a  window,  nor  round  a  door.  But  I  felt  that  I  was  watched 
even  if  the  eyes  were  invisible. 

It  is  rude  to  stare,  and  they  showed  good  taste  to  spare  me. 
But  I  guessed  they  were  human,  and  I  knew  enough  of  village  life 
in  remote  places  to  know  that  the  appearance  of  a  stranger  would 
be  a  subject  for  conversation. 

Of  course  I  had  been  seen  and  criticised.  It  was  Rosina  with 
her  customary  directness  who  told  me  of  it.  She  said : — 

'They  are  beginning  to  ask  whether  the  signora  has  only  one 
dress.' 

Bless  their  hearts ! 

'Signora,  7  know  that  you  have  beautiful  clothes,  and  many 
clothes,  because  you  have  shown  them  to  me.  But  why  do  you 
always  wear  the  same  dress?' 

Why  indeed?  It  had  been  colder  than  I  had  expected,  and  it 
was  my  only  thick  dress.  But  Rosina  was  not  pleased.  She  had 


THE   DANCE   AT  THE   INN  19 

probably  been  boasting  to  her  friends  that  I  was  a  great  signora 
of  fabulous  wealth  from  across  the  seas;  to  have  me  walk  about  in 
an  old  dress  did  not  at  all  fit  in  with  her  tale. 

So  when  I  dressed  for  the  dance  I  put  on  a  white  blouse,  a  washing 
one,  of  course.  I  had  been  to  peasant  dances  before,  not  hi  Italy, 
but  in  Sweden.  At  the  end  of  the  evening  I  have  always  found  a 
very  grubby  spot  where  my  partners  had  held  me.  If  that  was  so 
in  Sweden  it  would  no  doubt  be  the  same  in  Italy  too,  perhaps 
more  so. 

It  was  pitch  dark  when  we  started  for  the  village,  and  I  held 
Rosina's  arm  or  I  would  have  stumbled  on  the  road.  On  the  way  she 
told  me  unnerving  stories  of  a  devil  who  beset  the  road — and  in 
whom  she  did  not  believe,  but  some  did,  and  I  was  quite  pleased  to 
reach  the  village. 

It  was  dark  except  where  a  window  shed  its  dim  light  into  the 
street.  The  people  we  passed  were  blurred  shadows.  At  one  of  the 
first  houses  a  door  stood  open,  and  at  the  end  of  a  long  passage  was 
a  lamp-lit  room  and  the  sounds  of  an  accordion.  I  expected  Rosina 
to  go  in  here,  but  she  kept  on.  We  passed  the  mountain  road  and  had 
almost  reached  the  piazza  when  she  suddenly  turned  to  the  left  into 
one  of  those  dark  tunnels.  I  could  neither  see  her  nor  the  end  of 
that  black  gulf. 

I  hesitated,  and  remembered  the  story  of  the  devil.  Where  was 
she  taking  me?  I  suddenly  wondered  whether  I  had  not  been  silly 
to  come.  At  the  bottom  of  my  heart  I  was  actually  a  little  afraid  of 
these  peasants,  whose  thoughts  and  habits  were  remote  and  incom- 
prehensible to  me. 

'Signora,  come  on,'  called  Rosina,  'take  courage/ 


20  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

Her  voice  reassured  me,  and  I  followed.  The  tunnel  sloped 
upwards,  it  was  very  long.  I  hardly  knew  when  I  was  out  of  it,  for 
opposite  was  a  wall  and  only  a  little  streak  of  sky  over  our  heads. 
Before  us  was  a  house  dimly  lighted  up. 

'This,'  said  Rosina,  'is  the  house  of  Nino/ 

I  stood  looking,  fascinated  by  the  frightful  din. 

I  caught  sounds  of  shouting,  loud  voices,  snatches  of  song,  and 
uproarious  laughter. 

I  concluded  that  we  should  not  be  able  to  stay  long ! 

Rosina  was  mounting  the  steps. 

The  room  was  large  and  entirely  empty  except  for  two  men 
sitting  at  one  of  the  tables,  which  had  been  pushed  against  the  walls. 
They  were  Gheco  and  a  wooden-legged  man.  They  talked  quietly 
over  their  wine. 

The  noise  came  from  the  kitchen,  which  was  a  little  room  three 
steps  up,  packed  with  men  all  talking  at  once.  Some  were  seated 
at  a  table  eating  and  the  others  crowded  round,  laughing  and 
shouting. 

As  we  came  in  some  of  them  burst  into  song  : — 

'Tripoli,  bel  suol  d'amore, 
Ti  guinga  dolce,  questa  mia  canzon.' 

We  spoke  a  few  words  to  Gheco  and  sat  down  in  a  far  corner  and 
waited. 

Rosina  ordered  some  wine. 

At  last  four  men  came  out  of  the  kitchen  and  walked  leisurely 
across  to  four  chairs  which  had  evidently  been  occupied  by  them 


THE  DANCE  AT  THE  INN  21 

already.  They  were  the  musicians.  Sylvestri  Giacomi,  captain  of 
the  quartet,  came  first  with  his  mandoline;  then  Di  Marchesi 
Giacom,  a  huge  fellow  with  a  bass  cello.  After  him  the  two  Antonios 
with  guitars.  The  elder  of  these  was  called  Toni,  the  self-taught 
village  organist,  and  the  other  was  Tona,  funny  little  Tona  with  a 
blind  eye. 

They  sat  down  and  began  to  tune  up. 

The  kitchen  emptied  and  the  room  filled  with  men,  nothing  but 
men,  and  all  with  black  slouch  hats  on,  worn  rakishly  or  over  eyes 
like  assassins  on  the  stage.  It  was  not  a  shouting  rabble  that  came 
into  the  room,  but  a  sober,  quiet  crowd,  which  sat  on  tables  or  stood 
about,  patiently  awaiting  the  music. 

And  they  did  not  wait  long.  Giacomi  struck  up  a  jolly  polka, 
and  it  was  so  unexpectedly  well  played  that  for  some  minutes  I  was 
absorbed  in  watching  the  players. 

Some  one  asked  me  to  dance,  but  I  shook  my  head. 

I  didn't  really  know  what  I  ought  to  do.  Why  were  there  no 
other  girls?  Did  they  resent  the  presence  of  a  foreigner?  I  did 
not  wish  to  offend  any  one.  Nor  did  I  want  to  dance  in  solitary 
grandeur,  as  for  Rosina,  she  was  much  too  stout. 

My  would-be  partner  did  not  understand  me,  and  Rosina  leant 
forward  to  hear  what  I  was  saying. 

'Tell  him,'  I  said,  'that  I  do  not  wish  to  dance  before  the  other 
girls  come.' 

A  curly-haired  fellow  standing  close  by  answered  me  in  English. 

'De  women  come  direckly  dey  put  away  de  supper.  I  go  call 
dem.' 

Outsiders  dropped  in  and  the  walls  were  lined  with  spectators. 
I.P.  c 


22  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

The  curly-haired  man,  who  was  called  Raimondo,  returned  with  two 
girls.  Others  soon  followed,  and  we  danced. 

Who  could  sit  still  when  that  music  played?  Toni  and  Tona 
twanged  the  guitars  in  perfect  time,  never  taking  then-  eyes  off  the 
dancers.  Giacomi  was  more  serious,  whilst  Giacom  grappled  man- 
fully with  the  bass,  which  he  had  only  just  learnt  to  play. 

I  danced  with  many  partners,  and  several  tunes  with  the  same 
ones.  I  had  expected  that  Gheco  would  have  asked  me  for  one  of 
the  first  dances,  for  he  knew  me  and  the  others  didn't.  But  he  was 
too  modest  to  take  an  advantage  like  that.  However,  we  danced 
several  times  together  later  in  the  evening.  I  also  had  the  wooden- 
legged  man  for  a  partner  and  he  danced  amazingly  well.  His  black 
eyes  were  limpid  like  a  well  in  the  woods — they  were  most  extra- 
ordinary eyes. 

At  the  end  of  a  dance  my  partner  would  shake  hands  with  me, 
saying,  "Thank  you,'  then,  still  keeping  my  hand,  would  lead  me  to 
my  chair,  and  say  thank  you  again,  adding,  'excuse  me.'  The 
excuse  was  for  dancing  badly  and  for  any  fault  in  manners  that 
might  have  been  made. 

Partners  never  conversed  between  the  dances,  and  there  was  no 
attempt  at  what  we  would  call  sitting  out  or  at  flirtation. 

In  between  whiles  Rosina  brought  several  of  her  friends  to  me. 

"This  is  Bertoldi  Lucia,  the  wife  of  Toni,  who  is  playing  the 
guitar.'  She  was  a  dark,  unkempt  creature,  with  an  interesting 
face.  In  her  arms  was  a  grubby  baby  asleep.  Another  of  her  children 
sat  on  the  curb  of  the  fireplace,  another  was  the  dark  beauty  over 
there — and  the  tall  young  man  with  the  crooked  nose.  There  were 
several  more  children,  six  in  all,  and  I  forget  how  many  had  died. 


THE  DANCE  AT  THE  INN  23 

'Tliis  is  Giacomina.' 

In  spite  of  her  years  I  could  see  a  young  soul  shine  in  her  eyes. 
She  loved  dancing,  and  we  danced  together  at  once. 

'  Giacomina's  husband  is  in  America,'  went  on  Rosina,  when  we 
came  back,  'and  has  been  there  six  years.  She  has  three  children. 
That  is  her  son,  Costante,  dancing  with  the  tall  young  man  with  the 
crooked  nose.  Here  comes  her  sister,  Julietta.  Her  husband's  also 
in  America,  he  left  five  years  ago,  when  Pierrino  was  a  baby.  His 
name  is  Umberto,  and  is  the  brother  of  Teresina,  who  is  Nino's  wife, 
(we  are  in  their  house  now),  and  Nino  is  the  brother  of  Giacomina 
and  Julietta,  and  the  sister  of  Teresina  is  that  red-haired 
woman,  you  know,  who  married  Giacom,  who  plays  the  bass 
cello.' 

I  couldn't  follow. 

'Bertoldi  Gaetano  over  there  is  also  a  brother  of  Giacomina  and 
Nino.' 

I  had  danced  with  Gaetano.  He  was  a  merry  little  fellow.  He 
had  spoken  a  few  English  words,  and  had  told  me  that  he  too  had 
been  several  years  in  America. 

Giacomina  spoke  to  me. 

'Signora,'  she  said,  'you  are  enjoying  yourself?' 

'Yes,  yes,  very  much.' 

She  went  off,  telling  others  what  I  had  said,  and  every  one 
seemed  very  pleased. 

I  felt  amongst  friends. 

My  fears  were  all  gone.  I  was  as  keen  on  the  whole  thing  as 
they  were.  Dim  was  yesterday,  dimmer  still  to-morrow.  Forgotten 
were  heavy  loads  and  empty  larders.  As  far  as  they  were  concerned, 


24  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

the  whole  world  was  enclosed  in  those  four  walls.  Nothing  mattered 
whilst  they  danced. 

A  woman  with  an  enamel  basin  full  of  water  was  splashing  it 
over  the  floor,  to  lay  the  dust.  Whilst  dancing  we  had  ground  a 
considerable  amount  of  red  powder  out  of  the  tiled  floor.  Gaetano 
was  refilling  glasses. 

There  were  many  onlookers.  Some  sat  on  the  forms  which  stood 
against  the  walls,  leaning  their  arms  on  the  tables,  others  sat  on 
the  tables  themselves.  All  the  women  were  bareheaded,  but  every 
man  wore  a  hat,  whether  he  danced  or  no.  Some  spoke  and  laughed, 
others  were  immovably  intent.  Old  men  and  old  women  were  there 
who  had  danced  in  this  room  long  ago,  and  there  were  children  who 
ought  to  have  been  in  bed.  Two  of  the  girls  were  real  beauties,  the 
one  Catina,  Giacomina's  daughter,  stood  by  her  lover,  Conrado, 
whilst  Ghita,  who  had  no  lover,  was  trying  to  keep  her  young  sisters 
in  order.  They  were  cheeking  her. 

A  small  man  came  and  stood  with  his  back  to  the  table  by  me. 
He  leant  against  it,  watching  critically.  His  face  was  quite  serious, 
only  his  eyes  glittered  with  amusement. 

'Rosina,'  I  whispered,  'who  is  that?' 

'That?    It  is  Nino,  Bertoldi  Nino/ 

'Doesn't  he  dance?' 

'I  think  so,  would  you  like  to  dance  with  him?' 

'Yes,  if  he  asks  me.' 

'Nino!'  Rosina  called  out,  'the  signora  wishes  to  dance  with  you.' 

How  could  she  be  so  tactless ! 

Nino  looked  round  smiling  and  explained  that  he  danced  badly, 
'but — of  course — if  the  signora  wished  it * 


THE  DANCE  AT  THE  INN  25 

I  did  wish  it,  and  we  danced.  He  shut  his  mouth  tight  and  said 
nothing,  but  the  look  in  his  eye,  being  translated  into  English, 
expressed  '  what  a  lark  ! ' 

Rosina  told  me  that  Nino  had  been  in  America  with  her  husband. 
Nearly  every  one  seemed  to  have  been  in  America.  I  spoke  English 
to  him,  but  he  shook  his  head.  He  knew  even  less  than  Bortolo. 

Rosina  interrupted. 

'Signora,  this  is  Teresina,  the  wife  of  Nino/ 

She  offered  me  a  glass  of  wine. 

'Teresina,'  went  on  Rosina,  bent  on  muddling  me  still  further, 
'is  the  sister  of  Agnese,  who  married  Giacom,  who ' 

But  I  didn't  listen. 

Teresina  nudged  Nino. 

'Ask  the  signora  if  she  is  enjoying  herself/ 

I  assured  her  that  I  was. 

She  smiled  all  over.     'Then  we  are  contented/ 

I  danced  again  with  the  wooden-legged  man  and  with  Raimondo. 
But  there  is  an  end  to  all  things.  The  last  dance  was  played,  and 
the  players  rose.  The  room  was  full  of  people  standing, 

Rosina  and  I  left  at  once,  leaving  the  others  to  talk  and  finish 
their  wine.  It  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock. 

Riccardo  and  Paolino  joined  us  at  the  door,  and  we  plunged 
together  into  that  dark  tunnel  which  seemed  fearful  no  longer. 

Riccardo  took  my  arm  and  we  walked  on  in  front,  Rosina  and 
Paolino  a  few  yards  behind.  We  passed  through  the  village,  the 
accordion  was  still  playing,  and  we  caught  sight  of  dancers  through 
the  open  door. 

We  walked  on  gaily  enough.    Rosina  was  trying  to  find  out  how 


26  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

I  liked  it  all,  telling  me  that  every  one  had  said  I  was  a  signora 
molta  simpateca. 

Two  blurred  figures  came  towards  us,  clothed  in  long  cloaks. 
They  were  not  like  anything  I'd  seen  on  the  road  before,  and  it  was 
not  until  they  were  quite  close  that  I  saw  who  they  were.  Riccardo 
should  have  known.  Rosina  being  in  the  rear  could  not  see 
them. 

After  all,  it  was  nothing  very  extraordinary,  only  two  policemen. 
Rosina  stopped  and  looked  after  them. 

'Police,'  she  whispered  hoarsely,  'police/ 

'It  is  too  late  to  do  anything  now '  said  Paolino. 

She  stood  bolt  upright  in  the  road  and  thought. 

Riccardo's  hand  had  tightened  on  my  arm. 

'Police,'  he  echoed,  in  awed  voice. 

'Madre  mia,'  groaned  Rosina,  'we  can  do  nothing.  Signora, 
think  of  Nino — supposing ' 

'Rosina,  do  tell  me  what  it's  about.' 

She  looked  back  again  before  going  on. 

'Signora,'  she  answered,  'it  is  prohibited  to  dance  at  inns.' 

Good  Heavens ! 

'We  don't  know — perhaps  they  have  gone  home.  Let  us  hope 
the  musicians  have — in  any  case  it  is  past  ten  o'clock.' 

'Past  ten  o'clock?' 

'Yes,  signora,  ten  o'clock  is  closing  time.  Let  us  hope  for  the 
best.  Whatever  put  it  in  their  heads  to  come  up — at  this  time  of 
night?  It  is  incredible.' 

The  rest  of  the  way  we  walked  in  silence.  Rosina  thought  of 
Nino,  and  I  that  the  whole  thing  had  been  unlawful  from  beginning 


THE   DANCE   AT  THE   INN  27 

to  end.  I  was  tired,  and  bidding  Rosina  good-night  I  went  straight 
upstairs. 

The  sight  of  my  room  and  my  things  brought  me  back  to  realities. 
How  entirely  they  had  been  forgotten  whilst  I  danced.  .  .  . 

A  cool  breeze  blew  in  through  my  window. 

I  could  hear  Rosina  telling  Bortolo  downstairs. 

"This  has  been  a  most  remarkable  evening/  I  thought. 

I  found  it  still  more  remarkable  when  I  took  off  my  blouse  and 
found  that  it  was  perfectly  clean. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  VILLAGE 

NEXT  morning  Rosina  and  I  were  talking  in  the  kitchen  when  Nino 
came.  She  was  fanning  the  charcoal  fire  with  a  large  piece  of  torn 
cardboard. 

He  began  talking  to  her  at  once  in  the  dialect,  and  I  was  unable 
to  follow.  But  I  could  see  something  was  wrong,  for  they  both  got 
very  excited  and  gesticulated  freely.  Nino  seemed  aged  since 
yesterday,  doubtless  he  had  a  sleepless  night,  and  his  frequent  use 
of  the  word  'police'  told  me  the  rest. 

This  is  what  had  happened.  When  the  police  came  up  the  village 
street  they  passed  the  house  where  I  had  heard  the  accordion.  Bigi 
was  standing  at  the  door,  and  tried  to  persuade  the  police  to  come 
in,  but  they  would  not  do  so.  To  dance  in  a  private  house  is  quite 
lawful,  and  they  had  somehow  got  wind  of  the  dance  at  the  inn. 
Whilst  they  paused  to  answer  Bigi,  Julietta  caught  sight  of  them 
standing  in  the  bar  of  light  from  the  passage.  She  was  higher  up  the 
street,  and  ran  as  fast  as  she  could  to  Nino's  house.  'Boys/  she 
shouted  at  the  door,  'boys,  run,  the  police !' 

There  was  a  rush  for  the  door,  every  one  scuttling  up  a  back  path 
leading  to  the  mountain  road. 

Nino  blew  the  lamp  out. 

Then  the  police  came,  and  finding  the  door  open,  marched  in. 

28 


THE  VILLAGE  29 

Standing  in  the  middle  of  a  pitch  dark  room,  apparently  doing 
nothing,  were  Nino,  Teresina,  Gaetano,  and  the  old  father. 

Now  the  door  of  an  inn  must  always  be  locked  after  closing  time, 
which  is  ten  o'clock.  So  the  police  had  not  come  up  in  vain.  Nino 
was  to  be  summoned  for  having  the  door  open.  And  there  would 
be  a  fine  to  pay,  thirty  lire  at  the  very  least — more  likely  it  would 
be  fifty.  An  enormous  sum  for  poor  Nino  as  his  white  face  told  me. 

And  what  put  it  into  the  heads  of  the  police  to  come  up?  They 
themselves  said  that  some  one  had  been  to  the  police  station  and 
given  information  that  there  was  to  be  dancing  at  the  inn. 

One  could  but  guess  who  had  done  such  a  thing,  and  Nino  thought 
he  knew.  That  same  morning  a  man,  very  much  the  worse  for  liquor, 
had  come  to  the  inn  and  had  had  words  with  Nino,  had  insulted  him, 
and  Nino  had  refused  to  serve  him  with  more  wine.  The  man's  wife 
had  come,  and  taking  up  the  quarrel,  scolded  Nino  most  unjustly 
and  went  off  in  a  tearing  rage.  After  dinner  she  had  gone  to  the 
town.  In  all  probability  it  was  she  who  had  revenged  herself  by 
informing  the  police. 

It  was  bad  enough,  but  it  might  have  been  worse..  They  might 
have  been  caught  dancing,  and  the  police  knew,  and  every  one  knew, 
that  they  had  danced.  But  it  couldn't  be  proved. 

Dancing  is  only  allowed  in  a  licensed  house  which  has  two  public 
rooms. 

We  saw  a  good  deal  of  Nino  during  the  following  weeks,  whilst 
he  was  waiting  to  be  summoned  to  court.  He  came  nearly  every 
day  to  pour  his  troubles  into  Rosina's  sympathetic  ears,  and  when 
he  was  not  there,  she  would  sigh  over  her  work,  and  say,  'Poor  Nino, 
poor  Nino.'  She  was  sorry  for  him,  and  so  was  I.  He  grew  thinner 


30 

and  paler  every  day,  and  it  was  hard  to  see  him  and  not  be  touched 
by  it. 

'We  are  all  so  sorry,'  said  Bortolo,  'because  Nino  is  a  man  who 
works  hard  and  always  has  bad  luck.' 

'And  when  the  hailstorm  comes,  signora,'  went  on  Rosina,  'it  is 
always  his  fields  that  are  most  spoilt.  Last  year  when  we  gave  up 
our  licence  it  was  transferred  to  Nino ;  we  all  thought  it  would  be  a 
good  thing  and  bring  in  a  little  money.  Now  he  is  to  be  fined  ! ' 

'But  surely  they  will  make  a  collection  for  him?'  I  asked. 

Bortolo  shook  his  head.  'No,  signora,  it  is  not  the  custom  here. 
In  America,  yes,  they  pass  the  hat  round.  But  here  every  one 
would  look  the  other  way.  It  could  not  be  done.' 

'He  has  other  troubles  too,'  said  Rosina.  'He  was  in  America 
two  years  with  Bortolo,  as  you  know,  and  he  saved  all  his  money  and 
sent  home  enough  to  pay  off  the  family  debts.  The  money  he  sent 
home  afterwards  was  to  be  put  in  the  bank  for  him.  Signora,  he 
sent  3000  lire  in  all,  and  when  Nino  came  back  he  found  hardly  a 
penny  left.  His  father  had  drawn  it  out  and  spent  it.  That  is  all 
very  well,  but  the  father  is  now  making  his  will  and  wishes  to  leave 
all  his  property  to  his  daughters.  But  Nino  thinks  that  as  he  has  given 
his  father  so  much  money,  he,  too,  deserves  a  share.  It  is  only  just. 
But  the  old  man  has  a  hard  heart.  Nino  and  Giacomina  are  like  their 
mother.  She  was  soft-hearted  and  suffered  much.  Gaetano  is  more 
like  his  father,  things  don't  go  deep  into  him.  When  they  were  all 
children  they  were  so  poor  they  didn't  know  what  a  halfpenny  looked 
like.  It  is  true,  signora.  Even  now  you  seldom  see  butcher's  meat  in 
Nino's  house,  perhaps  a  frittura  on  Sunday,  but  otherwise  polenta 
and  cheese,  polenta  and  cheese,  and  polenta  and  cheese.  Sometimes 


THE  VILLAGE  31 

a  rabbit  or  a  bird  Nino  has  shot.  Ah,  they  are  not  extravagant, 
and  he  does  not  spend  his  money  in  wine.  But  he  works  always, 
and  always.  He  knows  everything  about  the  work  and  how  to 
make  and  mend  things.  Bortolo  is  continually  going  to  him  for 
advice.' 

Rosina  paused  to  chase  three  hens  from  the  kitchen,  flapping 
her  apron  at  them. 

'Signora,  last  year  he  insured  his  vines  and  after  the  hailstorm 
wrote  to  the  company.  But  he  did  not  do  so  in  time,  for  the  com- 
pany did  not  receive  his  letter  within  twenty-four  hours  of  the 
storm,  which  is  one  of  the  rules.  They  refused  to  pay  him  a  penny. 
So  he  lost  money  on  that.' 

'How  did  it  come  about  that  he  is  blind  in  one  eye?' 
'When  he  was  a  little  fellow,'  she  answered,  'he  stuck  a  penknife 
into  it.     And  you  have  noticed  the  bald  patches  on  his  head?     It 
was  an  accident,  boiling  water  was  spilt  over  him.    He  nearly  died. 
Poor  fellow,  he  is  unhappy  too,  because  Gaetano  is  returning  to 
America.    We  are  all  so  fond  of  Gaetano,  he  is  so  jolly.' 
'Nino  does  not  seem  to  have  been  very  fortunate.' 
'No,  signora,  poor  Nino,  two  of  his  children  are  dead,  and  they 
only  have  that  one  little  boy.' 

I  often  went  to  the  inn.  Teresina  made  excellent  lemon-squash, 
and  she  would  let  me  sit  in  the  kitchen,  which  was  a  fine  place  for 
watching  the  customers  in  the  public  room. 

She  would  sit  knitting  stockings,  and  smile  at  me  now  and  then, 
but  she  was  very  shy  of  talking.  She  was  so  sure  I  would  not  under- 
stand her.  If  Nino  was  there  she  would  ask  him  to  say  things  to  me 


32  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

for  her.  He  was  always  ready  to  talk  and  very  anxious  to  be  under- 
stood and  to  understand  me.  And  he  was  always  interesting.  His 
little  four-year-old  son  would  sit  on  his  knee  and  when  he  was  not 
talking  Nino  would  kiss  his  head  and  stroke  him.  Both  Nino  and 
Teresina  adored  Battisti,  but  he  was  a  stubborn  little  chap.  He 
absolutely  refused  to  speak  to  me  or  even  to  say  good-morning. 
In  vain  his  father  threatened  and  his  mother  attempted  to  bribe 
him.  It  was  impossible  to  make  him  do  it. 

On  Sunday  afternoons  the  place  was  always  full  of  men,  and  Nino 
would  be  playing  cards  which  bored  him.  It  was  part  of  his  duty 
as  innkeeper  to  make  up  a  fourth,  then  the  guests  would  remain 
longer  and  drink  more  wine.  But  if  they  sat  a  long  time  and  ordered 
nothing,  Nino  himself  would  call  for  a  quart.  After  all,  it  was  his 
own  house,  and  one  cannot  be  inhospitable.  .  .  . 

Besides  cards,  the  men  would  play  murra.  This  is  a  game  in 
which  you  shout  and  bang  the  table,  and  is  so  noisy  it  can  be  heard 
right  down  the  street.  I  wondered  that  it  might  be  played  in  an  inn. 

Four  men  take  part  in  it,  two  on  a  side,  the  sides  sitting  opposite 
each  other  at  a  table.  A  man  from  each  side  raises  his  right  hand 
and  together  they  bang  their  hands  on  the  table  in  rapid  succession. 
For  each  bang  they  hold  out  a  different  number  of  fingers  and  shout 
a  number.  The  one  who  has  called  the  right  number  of  fingers  of 
both  hands  added  together  has  won  a  point.  He  marks  the  score  by 
holding  out  a  finger  on  his  left  hand.  Then  he  plays  with  his  two 
adversaries  alternately  until  he  loses.  Fifteen  points  wins  the  game. 
Murra  is  called  instead  of  ten,  when  all  fingers  are  spread  out. 

It  is  quite  simple,  but  one  must  be  smart.  Your  hand  must  be 
on  the  table  at  the  same  moment  as  your  adversary's ;  if  you  are 


03 

-a 
c 

3 
CO 


THE  VILLAGE  33 

before  him  he  will  count  your  fingers  and  call  the  right  number, 
and  you  will  be  at  a  disadvantage  if  you  put  out  your  fingers  before 
the  last  moment.  His  eyes  never  leave  your  hand.  You,  too,  must 
watch  him  or  he  will  cheat.  It  is  best  to  remember  his  score  as  well 
as  your  own. 

They  bang  the  table  in  such  quick  succession  that  you  can  hardly 
see  to  count  the  fingers.  And  the  more  exciting  it  is,  the  louder 
they  shout  and  the  harder  they  bang,  and  during  the  short  respite 
when  some  one  scores  a  point,  they  all  swear. 

I  never  saw  women  play  this  game  of  murra,  and  only  very  seldom 
did  I  see  a  woman  take  a  hand  at  cards.  And  I  never  saw  any 
gambling.  The  only  other  game  played  in  the  village  was  La  Balla, 
which  is  also  only  a  man's  game.  It  is  played  in  the  street  on 
Sundays  after  the  afternoon  service.  The  villagers  watch  the  game 
with  great  interest,  sitting  in  groups  on  doorsteps  or  on  the  road  or 
standing  in  a  knot  at  the  turning  where  the  players  scuffle  for  the 
ball.  Careful  people  close  the  wooden  shutters  or  the  windows  might 
be  smashed,  and  the  smaller  children  are  kept  out  of  the  way. 

Half-way  between  the  piazza  and  the  turning,  a  sort  of  drum  is 
placed  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  It  is  like  a  large  tambourine.  A 
spadeful  of  sand  and  a  few  stones  keep  it  in  place.  The  player  who 
is  to  hit  the  ball  stands  here,  the  others  face  him  up  at  the  turning. 
They  have  taken  off  their  shoes  and  are  ready. 

The  hitter  steps  backwards. 

'Balla,'  he  calls  out,  and  running  forward  bounces  the  ball  on 
the  drum,  and  hits  it  up  the  street  with  the  palm  of  his  hand  as  hard 
as  he  can.  The  street  is  very  narrow  and  a  little  crooked,  and  the 
ball  does  not  always  go  straight.  Sometimes  it  falls  on  a  roof  and  is 


34  AMONG   ITALIAN   PEASANTS 

a  long  while  dropping  or  never  drops  at  all,  or  it  goes  higher  still  and 
falls  into  a  backyard.  But  usually  it  hits  a  wall  and  rebounds  up 
the  street  to  where  the  players  await  it.  Those  of  the  opposite  side 
try  to  hit  it  back  towards  the  drum,  the  others  try  to  get  it  higher 
up  the  street.  The  ball  may  touch  the  walls  or  roof  of  a  house,  but 
it  must  not  touch  the  ground.  There  is  an  exciting  moment  whilst 
the  ball  is  being  hit  backwards  and  forwards.  When  at  last  it  falls 
to  the  ground  the  place  is  marked  with  a  leafy  twig  and  the  score 
is  called  out. 

Then  the  man  at  the  drum  takes  another  short  run  and  hits  the 
ball  again.  This  time  it  must  touch  the  ground  beyond  the  leafy 
twig  if  his  side  is  to  win;  if  the  ball  comes  on  the  near  side  he  loses, 
and  must  give  up  his  place  to  an  opponent. 

The  balls  are  hard  and  small,  the  size  of  golf  balls.  They  have 
more  than  half  a  dozen  to  play  with,  so  that  they  may  not 
wait  whilst  boys  are  searching  for  lost  balls.  But  there  are  other 
interruptions. 

The  village  fountain  is  at  the  turning,  and  cattle  are  brought 
to  drink  at  the  trough,  and  goats  and  sheep.  Filip's  oxen  take  a  long 
time  to  meander  up  the  road  and  back  again,  and  of  course  the  game 
must  be  stopped  for  every  passer-by. 

They  play  it  until  it  is  too  dark  to  see.  Then  the  younger  men 
try  to  get  up  a  dance.  Usually  five  or  six  club  together  and  form 
a  company,  as  they  call  it,  and  agree  to  divide  the  expenses.  They 
ask  permission  to  dance  in  one  of  the  rooms  which  have  a  smooth 
brick  floor — and  there  are  not  many  such  floors  in  the  village,  and 
the  musicians  are  asked  to  play,  and  are  given  as  much  wine  as  they 
choose  to  drink  during  the  evening,  in  return  for  their  services.  The 


THE   VILLAGE  35 

table  is  pushed  on  one  side  or  lifted  into  the  passage,  and  chairs 
placed  for  the  players. 

All  the  girls  are  expected  to  come  to  a  dance,  and  as  many  on- 
lookers as  like  may  crowd  the  walls,  but  it  is  not  good  form  for  a 
man  to  come  and  dance  the  whole  evening  unless  he  has  arranged 
with  the  company  to  take  a  share  in  the  expenses,  or  been  invited 
by  them.  This  keeps  the  room  from  getting  too  crowded,  but  if  it 
is  large  and  there  are  plenty  of  girls,  the  company  will  let  every  one 
dance  and  they  never  mind  a  man  dancing  once  or  twice.  Girls  very 
frequently  dance  together,  and  so  do  men. 

At  seven  o'clock  the  room  empties  and  they  all  go  to  their  respec- 
tive homes  for  supper,  but  before  long  they  are  back  again  and 
keep  up  the  dance  until  ten  or  eleven  o'clock.  No  one  thinks  of  leaving 
until  the  players  rise  and  make  for  the  door.  Often  as  not  they  are 
entreated  for  one  more  dance,  but  when  they  do  go,  every  one  else 
does.  The  company,  however,  remain  behind  to  square  accounts. 

They  add  up  the  cost  of  wine,  the  hire  of  the  room,  and  the 
paraffin  lamp.  The  sum  is  divided  equally  amongst  them  and  they 
pay  up  at  once  to  the  man  who  had  undertaken  to  fetch  the  wine. 
Members  of  the  company  often  bring  wine  or  liqueurs  to  treat  their 
friends,  but  this  is  at  their  own  expense,  and  has  nothing  to  do  with 
the  company's  expenses. 

I  once  waited  with  Rosina  whilst  they  squared  accounts.  Renzi 
Gheco  was  one  of  the  company  and  had  asked  to  walk  home  with 
us.  No  villager  liked  to  walk  down  that  devil-infested  road  in  the 
dark,  and  if  we  had  not  waited  for  him,  I  am  sure  Gheco  would  have 
walked  home  with  a  lighted  candle  in  his  hand.  I  don't  mean  a 
lantern,  but  just  a  candle  which  would  go  out  at  every  gust,  and 


36  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

spatter  wax  on  his  clothes.  I  never  saw  him  leave  San  Lorenzo  after 
dark  without  taking  a  candle  from  his  pocket,  or  else  borrowing  one 
from  Rosina.  I  never  understood  whether  he  carried  it  to  enable 
him  to  see,  or  whether  he  thought  it  would  frighten  the  devil  away. 
Perhaps  it  made  him  think  of  the  candles  hi  church,  and  gave  him 
a  feeling  of  divine  protection. 

On  this  occasion  we  waited  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  whilst  the 
company  struggled  with  mental  arithmetic.  There  were  four  of  them 
and  the  sum  to  be  divided  was  3  lire  60  cents.  But  it  took  a  good 
deal  of  argument  to  agree  even  on  that  point.  I  remember  the  room 
cost  one  lire  and  the  rest  was  for  wine  and  the  lamp.  Then  3  lire 
60  cents  had  to  be  divided  by  four.  Raimondo,  who  was  quick, 
upset  the  other  three's  calculation  by  announcing  the  right  sum 
before  they  had  half  done  it,  which  threw  them  out  completely,  and 
instead  of  doing  the  sum  again  they  began  to  argue  that  Raimondo 
was  wrong.  Raimondo  tried  to  prove  he  wasn't,  and  they  all  talked 
at  once.  Then  one  of  them  had  a  quiet  think,  and  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that  the  amount  was  85  cents,  which  made  Raimondo  do  the 
sum  again.  By  this  time  Gheco  suggested  95  cents,  whereat  Raimondo 
shouted  they  were  all  crazy,  and  did  the  sum  out  loud  for  them. 
But  Gheco,  who  wouldn't  own  defeat,  explained  that  he  had  arrived 
at  that  sum,  because  he  had  added  it  all  up  from  the  beginning  and 
had  found  that  3  lire  60  cents  was  wrong.  So  they  were  back  again 
at  that  point. 

Of  course  it  was  amicably  settled  at  last  to  the  satisfaction  of 
every  one  but  the  man  who  still  insisted  his  share  was  85  cents. 
He  was  quite  dejected  over  that  halfpenny,  and  no  one  had  any 
sympathy  for  him. 


THE  VILLAGE  37 

We  walked  down  with  Gheco,  and  he  left  us  at  the  path  that  led 
to  his  cottage. 

'Gheco  seems  very  happy/  I  said  to  Rosina,  after  he  had  gone. 

'Ah,  signora,  he  has  his  love,'  she  answered,  'his  Apollonia.' 

Apollonia  was  La  Macuccia's  servant. 

'But  I  thought  Tona  was  courting  her,'  I  said,  remembering 
having  witnessed  a  delicious  flirtation  between  them  in  La  Macuccia's 
kitchen.  Apollonia  had  been  sewing,  and  Tona,  perched  up  on  the 
bench  by  the  fire,  was  curling  his  little  moustaches,  and  his  one  eye 
looked  at  her  with  embarrassing  appreciation.  Apollonia  was 
giggling.  La  Macuccia,  silent  for  once,  sat  knitting  at  the  window, 
and  Gheco  seemed  quite  out  of  it.  Perhaps  he  was  jealous  and 
repented  having  asked  Tona  to  help  him  in  the  fields.  But  it  was 
all  right  now.  Apollonia  had  accepted  Gheco,  and  Tona  had  with- 
drawn from  the  field,  vanquished.  But  it  still  remained  to  be  seen 
what  Apollonia's  relatives  would  say  about  it. 


I.P. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  RIDGE  OF  HOUSES 

RICCARDO  had  become  very  gloomy  of  late.  He  dawdled  more  than 
ever,  and  took  to  sitting  by  the  fireplace,  brooding.  Threats  and 
blows  had  no  effect  on  him.  Sometimes  he  would  rouse  himself  and 
behave  like  a  mad  thing,  caper  about,  pull  Pina's  hair,  and  pinch 
my  little  girl  until  she  shrieked.  Then  he  burst  into  wild  song,  and 
ended  up  with  an  idiotic  'he-he  !' 

I  thought  he  was  ill,  and  told  Rosina  so.    She  shook  her  head. 

'I  do  not  know  what  the  matter  is,  but  he  is  not  ill/  she  said. 

Paolino  giggled. 

'Riccardo  is  in  love/  he  explained,  'he  has  proposed  to  Albina 
and  been  rejected.  You  know  Albina,  that  girl  with  the  plaits? 
He  walks  up  from  town  with  her.  She  only  laughs  at  him/ 

I'm  afraid  we  also  found  Riccardo's  broken  heart  rather  amusing. 

'When  I  was  that  age/  said  Rosina,  'I  thought  of  other  things/ 

I  looked  at  her  and  wondered. 

She  went  out  and  stood  at  the  door  calling  him :  '  Riccardo, 
Riccardo,  imbecile,  fa  prest.  .  .  / 

What  a  little  nuisance  Riccardo  was.  The  whole  place  was 
poisoned  by  that  shouting.  If  the  olive-trees  could  have  spoken, 
they  would  have  said  'Riccardo/  In  his  more  amiable  moments  he 

pestered  me  for  kisses,  and  continually  touched  or  embraced  me. 

38 


THE  RIDGE  OF  HOUSES  39 

I  wondered  if  he  was  so  stupid.  He  was  very  cunning.  I  began 
to  understand  why  he  dawdled,  there  was  reason  in  it.  He  was 
never  allowed  to  be  idle.  It  was  never  'you  may  run  and  play  when 
you've  done  this.'  As  soon  as  one  task  was  completed  he  was  put  to 
a  new  one.  After  supper  he  had  to  wash  up,  whereupon  he  fell  asleep 
over  the  fire.  First  thing  in  the  morning  he  carried  the  milk  down  to 
the  town.  To  dawdle  was  the  way  to  save  himself  from  being  over- 
worked. Of  course  he  carried  it  too  far,  and  I  am  not  trying  to 
defend  him,  but  I  mention  it  as  a  principle  to  which  most  boys  in 
Campia  resorted.  They  were  all  shouted  at  and  driven  to  work.  I 
would  have  felt  more  sympathy  for  Riccardo  if  he  had  shirked  his 
work  or  run  away  in  order  to  do  something  else.  But  he  never  did 
anything  else.  He  was  just  round  the  corner,  hands  in  pockets, 
loafing  or  perhaps  sitting  in  the  swing,  but  not  swinging.  He  quite 
preferred  to  sit  in  the  swing,  if  it  meant  forcibly  ejecting  one  of  the 
little  girls.  His  favourite  place  was  by  the  kitchen  fire,  and  he  would 
sit  and  gaze  at  the  ashes  if  there  was  no  fire,  and  take  no  notice 
whatever  of  the  repeated  calls. 

Bortolo  so  loved  work  that  he  expected  his  boys  to  do  so  as  well. 
Paolino  worked  very  hard  and  willingly,  but  Riccardo — what  a 
disappointment  he  was.  Rosina  did  not  treat  him  very  judiciously. 
One  minute  she  was  *vhacking  him  mercilessly,  the  next  she  was 
spoiling  and  petting  him.  No  wonder  Paolino  thought  it  a  little 
unjust.  He  had  to  do  his  own  work  and  half  of  Riccardo's  as 
well. 

There  was  Rosina,  calling  him  again,  dwelling  with  great  weight 
on  each  word  : — 

'Riccardo — brutta  figura — ignorante — villano — ma  perch£  .  ,  .  .' 


40  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

She  said  a  lot  more,  but  I  walked  off  to  the  Ridge  of  Houses. 
The  path  skirted  the  top  of  the  little  gorge  where  the  water  trickled 
and  wound  in  and  out  amongst  olive-trees,  past  Gheco's  cottage 
and  up  on  to  the  ridge. 

Gheco's  wheat  was  growing  tall,  and  flowers  blossomed  every- 
where. It  was  a  lovely  day  and  the  weather  had  been  sunny  for 
over  a  month.  Rain  was  badly  needed.  Bortolo  looked  at  the  sky 
every  morning  and  predicted  no  rain.  He  always  knew  what  the 
weather  would  be,  and  I  only  once  remember  his  making  a  mistake. 
On  that  occasion  a  thunderstorm  drenched  me.  He  would  say  at 
seven  o'clock  in  the  morning,  'It  will  rain  after  dinner' — and  it 
would. 

I  felt  a  sudden  jar  as  I  caught  sight  of  La  Macuccia.  She  was 
on  the  path,  leading  a  goat  which  wanted  to  browse  amongst  Gheco's 
wheat.  I  hoped  she  would  not  detain  me  long,  but  I  was  disappointed. 
She  had  a  great  deal  to  say,  and  I  could  just  about  understand  one- 
fifth  of  it.  It  made  no  difference  to  her  flow  of  words  if  I  said,  'I 
do  not  understand,'  she  went  on  just  the  same.  Latterly  I  had 
adopted  the  habit  of  saying  'Yes,  yes,  how  very  nice,'  whenever  she 
expected  me  to  put  in  a  word,  and  we  usually  got  on  famously  like 
that. 

To-day  she  told  me  a  long  yarn  about  Apollonia,  and  stopped 
abruptly  when  I  said  'How  very  nice.' 

'But  I  am  telling  you,  signora,  that  he  is  dead.  .  .  .' 

'Dead — who  is  dead?'  I  asked  in  consternation. 

'It  is  the  father  of  Apollonia — she  has  gone  home — he  died  last 
night — we  had  a  message — it  will  be  several  days  before  she  returns 
— I  am  alone  and  have  little  opportunity  for  conversation — she  took 


Cristofolo  Crossing  the  Ridge  of  Houses. 


THE  RIDGE  OF  HOUSES  41 

some  clothes  with  her  and  her  hat.  .  .  .'  and  so  on,  in  that  screechy 
voice. 

At  last  I  escaped  and  went  up  to  the  Ridge  of  Houses. 

It  is  an  open,  flattish  place,  covered  with  heaps  of  stones  and 
a  precipice  on  two  sides  of  it.  There  is  hardly  any  shade,  and  only 
a  few  young  cypress-trees  grow  there,  but  a  gentle  breeze  fans  the 
ridge  even  on  the  hottest  day.  The  view  is  wonderful.  You  can  see 
right  across  to  the  plains. 

But  there  are  no  houses.  The  heaps  of  stones  are  all  that  remain 
of  a  little  village,  which  stood  there  long  ago  until  the  days  of  the 
Plague.  Then  the  pestilence  came  and  killed  off  every  single  inhabi- 
tant. No  one  was  left,  and  no  one  took  their  place,  and  the  houses 
stood  empty  a  very  long  time,  until  they  fell  to  ruin.  The  name  is 
forgotten. 

Perhaps  Gheco's  cottage  stood  on  the  outskirts,  and  of  course 
the  fontana  belonged  to  it,  the  one  where  the  women  wash  clothes, 
which  is  close  by.  The  church  is  said  to  have  stood  a  little  below, 
on  Nino's  land,  where  silver  candlesticks  and  other  relics  have  been 
dug  up. 

Campia  nearly  shared  the  same  fate.  The  Plague  claimed  its 
victims  there  too,  and  the  stricken  inhabitants  dragged  a  barrel  of 
wine  into  the  piazza,  and  bade  every  one  drink  and  keep  up  his  heart. 
Whether  they  kept  up  their  hearts,  I  do  not  know,  but  it  is  certain 
they  did  not  keep  away  the  Plague.  They  died,  one  after  the  other, 
and  in  the  end  there  were  only  three  left.  These  three  were  men, 
and  the  descendants  of  two  of  them,  Bertoldi  and  Castelli,  are  very 
numerous  in  the  village  at  the  present  day.  The  third's  descendants 
seem  lately  to  have  died  out. 


42  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

I  saw  Nino  at  work  close  by,  and  went  to  see  what  he  was  at. 
He  had  a  little  cotton  bag  containing  maize  and  bean  seeds  mixed 

together. 

He  took  a  handful  and  scattered  them  on  the  ground.  Then  he 
broke  up  the  soil  with  a  pick. 

'Is  that  the  way  you  sow  seeds?'  I  asked,  perhaps  a  little 
surprised. 

'Is  it  not  a  good  way?' 

'In  England,'  I  answered,  'we  dig  up  the  soil  first.' 

'Perhaps  it  would  be  better,  but  I  have  no  time  to  do  that.  I 
have  too  much  land.' 

He  took  his  long-stemmed  pipe  from  his  upper  waistcoat 
pocket,  and  filled  it  from  a  little  leather  bag  kept  in  his  trouser 
pocket. 

We  walked  back  to  the  gate  which  opens  on  to  the  Ridge  of 
Houses.  In  the  shade  lay  a  large  water-bottle  and  his  coat  and  some 
of  his  tools.  He  looked  back  at  the  vines. 

'It  simply  won't  rain,  ostia,'1  he  said. 

"The  vines  look  fine,'  I  said. 

'Yes,  signora,  there  will  be  many  grapes  this  year — but  of  course 
— when  the  hail  comes  .  .  .'  he  shrugged  his  shoulders.  'Every 
year  it  comes,  in  July  or  August,  and  the  crops  are  ruined  .  .  .' 

'But  not  always?'  I  asked. 

'Every  year,  signora,  it  hails  not  only  once,  but  sometimes  twice, 
and  what  isn't  destroyed  by  the  first  storm  is  done  for  by  the  second 
.  .  .  but  sometimes  it  is  not  so  bad,  it  depends  on  the  wind.  Last 
year  only  one-third  of  the  crops  were  spoilt  down  here,  but  up  at  the 

IThis  is  a  bad  oath. 


THE  RIDGE  OF  HOUSES  43 

fields  by  Campia  everything  was  devastated.  The  storm  is  usually 
worst  up  there.  You  should  see  it,  the  grapes  are  torn  from  the 
vines  and  strewn  on  the  ground,  whole  bunches  of  them,  and  the 
leaves  are  wrenched  off,  and  the  plants  stand  naked.  They  all 
suffer,  the  olives  and  the  maize  too.  In  ten  minutes  it  is  all  spoilt. 
Goddam/  he  added  fiercely  in  English. 

I  listened  half  incredulously. 

'You  don't  believe  it,  but  it  is  quite  true.  You  see,'  he  went 
on,  relighting  his  pipe,  'it  isn't  that  the  soil  is  bad,  it's  very  good, 
and  the  plants  are  strong  and  healthy  and  we  all  work  hard  and 
ought  to  do  well.  But  then  the  hail  comes — and  all  our  work  has 
been  in  vain.' 

'And  the  Government,  does  it  do  nothing  for  you?' 

'Nothing,  signora.' 

'Nor  any  one  else?' 

'No,  signora.' 

'Well,  what  happens?' 

'One  year  in  ten  we  have  a  good  harvest,  and  then  we  make  a 
little  money.  But  the  other  years ' 

'But  you  make  so  much  that  you  have  enough  to  eat?' 

'No,  signora.' 

'But,  Nino,  what  do  you  do?' 

He  became  very  serious. 

'When  it  is  a  bad  year  there  is  no  money  and  no  wine,'  he  said 
reminiscently,  in  a  low  tone.  'So  we  eat  polenta  and  drink  water. 
We  don't  die,  because  that  is  sufficient  to  keep  us  alive.  The  shops 
in  the  town  give  us  credit.  That  is  how  we  run  into  debt,  and  are 
forced  to  go  to  America.  .  .  .  And  when  it's  a  bad  year  like  that, 


44  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

signora,  we  cannot  work  more  than  four  days  a  week  because  we 
have  not  the  strength  to  do  more.  . 

He  waited  for  me  to  speak,  but  as  I  didn't,  he  said  : — 

'Signora,  it  is  quite  true.' 

'Look,'  he  continued,  pointing  with  his  pipe  up  the  terraced  hill- 
side,  'my  land  begins  at  the  road  and  runs  right  down  to  the  barn 
below.  It  is  good  land,  and  I  have  many  plants,  and  I  have  still  more 
lands  beyond  the  village.  And  I  work  always,  always.  But  I  cannot 
make  it  pay,  I  cannot  make  both  ends  meet,  and  if  the  crop  fails 
again  this  year,  I  too  must  go  to  America.' 

'And  did  you  like  being  in  America?' 

'Signora,  there  is  money  in  America,  but  it  is  much  better  to 
live  in  Italy.' 

'But  this  is  dreadful,  Nino.  I  suppose  there  is  nothing  to  be 
done  when  the  hailstorm  has  been,  but  what  do  you  do?' 

'Swear,  signora,'  and  he  laughed,  'swear  when  we  see  the  fields, 
swear  when  we  think  of  the  storm,  just  swear.  We  can  do  nothing, 
and  have  a  lazy  time  because  there  is  no  harvest  to  speak  of.  Do 
you  see  that  tree  there,  and  the  marks  on  the  bark  ?  That  was  done 
in  the  storm  of  '81.  I  can  just  remember  it,  and  the  winter  that 
followed.  ...  It  was  a  great  storm,  and  the  crops  were  entirely 
ruined.  We  knew  of  no  America  then  and  we  nearly  starved.  The 
plants  never  properly  recovered.  You  see,  it  is  not  only  the  harvest 
which  is  spoilt,  the  plants  suffer  so,  often  the  damage  is  permanent.' 

He  picked  up  his  water-bottle  and  swung  his  coat  over  his  left 
shoulder. 

'  You  are  going  to  Campi£  ? '  I  asked. 

'It  is  dinner  time.' 


THE  RIDGE   OF  HOUSES  45 

'But  it  is  hardly  eleven  o'clock.' 

'Dinner  is  at  half-past  eleven.' 

'And  how  long  have  you  been  at  work?' 

'Since  four  o'clock,  signora.' 

He  went  up  the  path  to  the  fontana,  but  stopped. 

'Do  you  hear  them  calling'?  he  asked. 

'Yes,'  I  answered,  'they  cannot  have  found  Bernardo  yet.' 

'No,  they  will  hardly  find  him  alive.    Good-bye.' 

Bernardo  was  an  old  man  in  very  ill  health.  Last  Sunday  night 
at  ten  o'clock  he  had  walked  out  of  his  home  and  had  never  returned. 
Ever  since  his  relations  had  been  searching  for  him,  but  not  a  trace 
could  they  find.  This  was  the  fourth  day,  and  they  were  beginning 
to  lose  hope. 

I  watched  Nino  until  he  was  out  of  sight.  The  mountain  folk 
all  walk  slowly  and  have  short,  thick  legs. 

I  had  arranged  with  Nino  that  he  should  sit  for  me,  as  I  wanted 
to  draw  him.  He  came  in  his  midday  rest,  and  sat  from  one  until 
three  or  even  four  o'clock.  He  did  this  readily  enough,  and  I  do 
not  doubt  he  would  have  done  it  for  no  remuneration  whatever,  for 
I  had  a  difficulty  in  getting  him  to  accept  a  twopenny  packet  of 
tobacco  and  a  drink  of  beer  for  an  afternoon's  sitting.  He  preferred 
beer  to  wine,  believing  it  to  be  more  strengthening.  A  good  model 
is  valuable,  and  he  was  always  punctual.  Neither  did  he  ever  fail 
me,  always  letting  me  know  if  he  was  unable  to  come. 

Nino  was  very  talkative,  and  when  Rosina  was  in  the  kitchen 
they  would  keep  up  a  running  conversation.  I  rather  liked  this, 
for  when  Nino  sat  silent  he  would  get  more  gloomy  and  dejected 
every  minute — thinking  of  his  fine  and  the  police-court.  But 


46  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

sometimes  he  would  become  a  little  too  animated,  gesticulating  and 
laughing,  so  that  it  was  impossible  to  draw  him.  I  had  already 
admonished  him  several  times  one  afternoon,  but  Rosina  would  go 
on  talking  and  he  would  not  sit  still.  At  last  in  a  state  of  desperation 

I  said : — 

'Villano!'     It  was  an  epithet  that  Rosina  frequently  used  for 

Riccardo. 

There  was  a  dead  silence. 

'Signora/  said  Nino  at  last,  taking  his  pipe  from  his  lips,  'my 
shoulders  are  strong  enough  to  bear  even  that.' 

'It  is  a  dreadful  thing  to  say,'  admonished  Rosina,  'and  I  don't 
expect  you  know  what  it  means,  or  you  wouldn't  say  it.' 

'  But  in  English  we  say  "  you  villain,"  and  it  isn't  anything  bad.' 

She  explained  what  it  meant.  A  villano  was  a  rude,  boorish, 
clumsy  fellow,  without  any  manners  whatever,  a  clown,  in  fact. 
It  was  a  word  I  oughtn't  to  use.  It  would  be  better  to  call  him 
ignorante  or  insolente. 

'Oh,  Rosina,'  I  sighed,  'I  don't  know  what  would  happen  if  I 
called  an  English  model  insolent !  What  a  language  yours  is.  Only 
the  other  day,  when  I  was  walking  up  from  the  town,  I  overtook 
Nino  and  Teresina.  They  wanted  to  carry  my  bag,  and  kept  chasing 
me  about  so  as  to  take  it,  which  is  fatiguing  on  that  road.  I  didn't 
want  either  of  them  to  carry  it,  as  they  were  loaded  themselves.  At 
last  I  got  angry,  and  cried  with  great  vehemence,  'Per  la  Madonna!' 
The  effect  was  marvellous.  Teresina  skipped  about  three  yards 
backwards  down  the  steep  road  and  was  completely  cowed  for  the 
rest  of  the  walk,  Nino  jumped  a  whole  yard  into  the  air  with  surprise, 
and  they  both  looked  as  if  I'd  presented  a  pistol  at  their  heads ' 


47 

'But,  signora,  it  is  an  awful  swear  word.' 

'How  am  I  to  know  that?  I've  heard  Nino  say  it  hundreds  of 
times,  and  it  doesn't  seem  to  me  very  different  from  saying  'Per 
Dio ! ' 

'  Ah,  per  Dio  every  one  may  say — but  per  la  Madonna  .  .  .  / ' 

'And  ostia  and  sacramento  are  bad  words  too?' 

'Signora,  you  must  never  say  them.' 

'But  Nino  can't  say  a  sentence  without  slipping  an  "  ostia  "  into 
it.  How  many  times  has  he  said  it  this  afternoon?  His  language 
is  dreadful.' 

'When  one  uses  a  word  often,'  said  Nino,  'it  loses  its  meaning. 
I  don't  think  of  the  Host  when  I  say  "  ostia."  Besides,  the  priests 
say  it  is  not  blasphemous  to  use  these  words,  unless  we  prefix  an 
adjective.  For  instance,  to  say  "  Porca  Madonna  "  is  wicked.' 

'I  should  think  so  !    And  what  does  "  orca  cane  "  mean?' 

'It  doesn't  mean  anything.  It  is  a  way  of  changing  a  wicked 
expression  into  something  harmless.  It  stands  for  "  sporca  carne," 
referring  to  the  flesh  of  Christ.  In  just  the  same  way  you  hear 
people  say  "  porca  madosca  "  and  "  osteria  "  or  "  sacramesco."  It 
all  means  nothing.' 

Our  further  conversation  was  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  three 
very  hot  individuals.  They  were  the  village  priest,  Renzi  Giuseppe 
the  giant,  and  his  nephew,  Renzi  Francesco.  They  called  for  wine 
and  went  into  the  parlour.  We  all  followed  them,  for  it  was  evident 
something  had  happened.  They  all  shouted  at  once  in  the  most 
excited  fashion,  and  Giuseppe  gesticulated  so  violently  that  I  kept 
well  out  of  range. 

It  took  Rosina  quite  a  long  time  before  she  could  make  head  or 


48  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

tail  of  them.  She  leant  against  the  door-post,  listening,  but  saying 
nothing.  After  about  half  an  hour  they  grew  a  little  calmer,  and  we 
began  to  understand. 

Bernardo  had  been  found — dead,  yesterday  afternoon,  and  they 
had  just  buried  him.  Giuseppe  and  Francesco,  who  were  related  to 
him,  had  been  pall-bearers.  The  priest  had  read  the  service,  and  here 
they  were  at  San  Lorenzo  to  slake  their  thirst.  It  was  intensely  hot 
and  the  perspiration  streamed  down  their  faces. 

Bernardo  had  been  found,  yes,  at  the  bottom  of  the  Ridge  of  Foxes, 
with  a  great  wound  in  his  head.  A  girl  had  passed  there  and  seen 
him.  A  message  had  been  at  once  sent  to  the  police  and  the  doctor, 
but  although  they  had  word  in  the  town  before  five  o'clock  in  the 
evening,  they  never  came  until  this  morning !  The  body  had  to  be 
left  out  there  all  night,  the  police  must  see  it  before  it  is  moved 
away.  It  was  dreadful  for  the  relations.  The  police  come  up  soon 
enough  if  they  think  they  are  likely  to  summon  any  one — but  for  a 
poor  dead  man  and  bereaved  family — not  they  !  They  think  they 
can  treat  us  anyhow,  but  we  have  feeling  as  well  as  other  people. 
What's  more,  they  are  legally  obliged  to  come  at  once.  When  we 
asked  to-day  why  they  had  not  come,  we  were  told  to  mind  our  own 
business  !  And  one  of  the  police  actually  asked  Francesco  why  he 
did  not  take  off  his  hat  to  him  !  Francesco  answered  that  he  had 
saluted  him  once,  and  considered  that  sufficient !  .  .  .  And  Bernardo  ? 
The  doctor  said  he  had  only  been  dead  two  days.  It  was  yesterday, 
Friday,  that  he  was  found — and  he  disappeared  on  Sunday.  Think 
of  it.  We  went  up  and  searched  the  top  of  the  ridge  and  there  we 
found  a  little  place  where  he  must  have  sat  hidden.  It  was  right  in 
some  bushes,  and  we  could  see  where  he  had  sat  and  where  he  had 


THE   RIDGE   OF  HOUSES  49 

leant  back.  His  hat  was  there  and  his  zoccoli.  For  three  days  he 
must  have  sat  there,  from  Sunday  night  until  Wednesday — without 
food  or  drink.  .  .  .  There  is  no  water  nearer  than  the  village  fountain. 
Such  hot  days  too.  ...  It  was  dreadful  to  think  of.  ...  And  we 
passed  there  in  our  search,  calling  his  name,  and  he  must  have  heard 
us,  it  is  certain  that  he  did,  but  he  did  not  answer.  .  .  .  Poor  old 
man,  hidden  and  alone  in  that  familiar  spot,  preparing  himself  for 
the  fatal  leap.  .  .  . 

They  went  on  discussing  it,  and  presently  some  one  produced  a 
pack  of  cards.  The  breviary  was  put  on  the  side-table,  and  Nino 
made  a  willing  fourth.  They  played  cards  for  four  hours  and  drank 
a  great  deal  of  wine. 

I  am  afraid  the  priest  was  too  fond  of  the  bottle.  He  was  not 
a  man  I  respected.  On  the  few  occasions  that  I  had  conversed  with 
him,  he  disgusted  me  with  his  vulgarity.  His  words  always  had  a 
double  meaning,  and  his  insinuations  were  unpriestly.  Most  of  the 
villagers  held  him  in  contempt.  No  doubt  he  himself  knew  how 
badly  he  filled  his  position  and  what  a  sham  it  was.  His  very  weakness 
drove  him  to  seek  consolation  in  wine  and  a  woman  whose  husband 
was  in  America. 

His  ardent  wish  had  been  to  become  a  soldier — but  they  made 
a  priest  of  him.  It  was  very  much  to  be  regretted ! 


CHAPTER  V 

CHARCOAL  BURNERS 

CASTELLI  CRISTOFOLO  was  Bortolo's  first  cousin,  and  he  very 
frequently  came  to  San  Lorenzo.  Sometimes  he  was  on  his  way  to 
the  town  with  an  old  white  donkey  and  would  come  in  for  a  glass  of 
wine,  but  more  often  he  only  went  down  the  garden,  where  he  had 
a  strip  of  land.  He  was  a  spirited,  talkative  old  fellow.  His  gestures 
seemed  almost  too  energetic  for  one  so  ancient.  He  was  thin  and 
bony,  and  his  close-cropped  hair  and  moustaches  were  snow  white. 
Anetta,  his  wife,  was  a  placid  old  lady,  so  gentle,  I  thought  her. 

They  had  four  children.  The  eldest  girl  was  married  to  Renzi 
Giuseppe,  and  had  a  very  numerous  family.  The  second,  the  beautiful 
Maria,  married  Di  Marchesi  Stefen.  Dominica,  the  third  daughter, 
had  been  many  years  from  home.  She  went  into  service  in  a  distant 
town,  and  for  six  years  nothing  was  heard  of  her.  Her  relations 
thought  her  dead.  However,  one  day  a  letter  came.  She  was  not 
only  alive,  but  doing  well,  and  had  saved  money.  The  six  years 
had  been  spent  in  France  and  London,  and  she  had  also  learned  to 
speak  a  little  Spanish  and  German.  She  was  an  interpreter  in  a 
Florentine  Hotel.  That  summer  she  paid  a  visit  to  Campia,  and 
finding  her  old  home  very  tumbledown  she  had  a  new  house 
erected  on  the  site.  Lately  she  had  married  a  wealthy  grocer  in 
Florence,  and  was  quite  a  grand  lady.  No  doubt  I  would  see  her,  for 

she  was  coming  to  Campik  in  July. 

50 


CHARCOAL  BURNERS  51 

Bigi  was  the  only  son.  I  saw  him  often  at  the  dances,  but  he 
never  danced  nor  spoke  to  me.  So  I  had  to  study  him  from  a  distance, 
for  he  interested  me.  He  had  a  deliberate  way  of  moving  which  was 
puzzling.  It  was  as  if  he  were  half  stunned  or  had  suffered  a  shock 
and  never  recovered.  Rosina  spoke  as  if  she  were  very  fond  of  him, 
but  I  never  saw  Bigi  at  San  Lorenzo. 

One  day  she  told  me  they  had  quarrelled.  It  was  about  her 
eldest  daughter  Selina,  who  had  gone  to  Cannes  last  September. 
Some  relations  had  offered  her  a  good  position  in  a  shop  there.  Bigi 
had  not  liked  Selina  going — that  was  all. 

'Selina  is  only  eighteen  and  far  too  young  to  marry/  said  Rosina, 
vigorously  wiping  a  dish,  'so  I  thought  it  would  be  a  good  thing  to 
send  her  abroad  as  I  had  the  opportunity.  Perhaps  .  .  .  when  she 
comes  back  and  still  cares  for  Bigi  .  .  .  something  may  come 
of  it.' 

'And  Bigi?'  I  asked. 

'Ah — Bigi  was  very  angry  about  it.  But  I  only  did  as  any 
mother  would  have  done  in  my  place  .  .  .'  said  Rosina,  on  the 
defensive  against  her  conscience.  '  Do  you  know,  they  don't  even 
write  to  each  other?  There's  true  love  for  you !'  and  she  slammed 
the  dish  down  on  the  table. 

'Have  they  quarrelled?'  I  asked. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

Selina  wrote  affectionate  letters  to  her  parents,  which  Rosina 
showed  me  with  pride.  Sometimes  they  contained  money. 

I  imagined  Selina  to  be  a  jolly  girl,  full  of  life  and  charm.  There 
was  a  photo  of  her  taken  together  with  Bigi  in  the  bedroom.  They 
stood  side  by  side,  perfectly  naturally,  laughing.  Bigi  looked  fatter 


52  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

and  very  handsome.  Selina  was  perfectly  lovable.  It  was  such  a 
pleasing  picture,  that  a  later  portrait  sent  from  Cannes  came  rather 
as  a  shock.  It  was  conventional,  and  Selina  stood  resting  her  gloved 
hand  on  a  pedestal.  She  was  serious  and  glum.  The  bloom  of  the 
mountains  had  already  worn  off,  and  I  am  afraid  it  will  not  be  quite 

the  same  Selina  who  will  return  next  year. 

.....«•• 

Cristofolo  and  Bigi  were  burning  charcoal,  and  I  was  looking 
forward  to  see  them  at  work,  and  to  make  a  sketch.  But  just  when 
everything  was  ready  for  the  first  stack  to  be  lit,  Bigi  had  an 
accident. 

The  wood  was  being  stacked  in  two  places,  and  it  was  at  the 
farther  place  Bigi  fell.  A  little  path  led  to  it  across  the  face  of  a 
cliff.  There  was  a  dizzy  drop  below,  and  Cristofolo,  who  was  showing 
me  the  way,  turned  and  offered  to  hold  my  hand.  I  declined  the 
hand  but  I  felt  afraid.  The  path  was  very  narrow  and  went  down  hill, 
in  places  it  had  given  way  and  been  patched  with  faggots.  Right 
down  at  the  bottom  I  could  see  the  road  winding  along  the  edge 
of  the  lower  cliff,  which  rose  straight  out  of  the  lake. 

The  path  led  to  a  little  circular  platform  poised  at  a  corner  of 
the  cliff.  The  stack  stood  in  the  centre  with  two  feet  of  path  all 
the  way  round  it,  and  a  wall  of  brushwood  to  keep  the  wind  off,  and 
a  curtain  of  sacking  across  the  farther  opening.  On  three  sides  the 
mountain  went  sheer  down,  on  the  fourth  it  went  straight  up.  The 
path  went  on  for  a  few  yards  round  the  corner  into  a  dry  torrent 
bed. 

Bigi,  carrying  billets  down  from  higher  up,  had  slipped  and 
rolled  down  the  torrent  bed,  apparently  to  destruction.  Only  one 


CHARCOAL  BURNERS  53 

thing  stood  between  him  and  death,  and  that  was  a  sapling,  the 
only  obstacle  standing  on  the  whole  stretch. 

Cristofolo,  poor  old  man,  saw  his  son  fall,  and  clasping  his  hands 
in  dismay,  watched  Bigi  tumble  and  slide  over  the  stones,  and  the 
stones  tumble  and  bounce  over  him.  The  billets  were  scattered. 
Down  went  Bigi  for  fifty  feet,  when  Fate  bumped  him  against  that 
little  tree  and  he  stopped.  .  .  .  The  stones  went  on  rolling  down  to 
the  bottom. 

Cristofolo  peered  down,  muttering.  He  was  certain  Bigi  was 
dead.  But  Bigi  was  only  dazed,  and  presently  gave  a  sign  of  life. 
His  father  was  too  old  to  climb  down  to  him  and  too  weak  to  think  of 
helping  him  up,  so  he  ran  along  the  path  in  great  agitation  calling 
on  Nino,  whose  lands  were  close  by.  Nino  was  hoeing.  It  did  not 
take  him  long  to  bring  the  injured  man  to  a  place  of  safety. 

In  the  afternoon  I  went  to  see  Bigi.  The  house  was  on  the 
mountain  road,  and  I  entered  the  walled-in  courtyard  by  a  massive 
green  gate.  A  stairway  outside  the  house  led  up  into  the  kitchen, 
which  was  over  the  stable.  Anetta  was  there  and  called  to  Bigi, 
who  came  at  once  and  sat  down  on  the  big  wooden  chest.  She  put 
a  hard  pillow  at  his  back. 

He  had  a  deep  cut  below  his  left  eye  which  was  bandaged  up, 
his  right  arm  was  swollen  and  stiff,  his  back  ached,  and  he  was 
bruised  all  over.  He  was  in  great  pain,  but  tried  not  to  show  it.  I 
had  not  expected  to  find  him  such  a  Spartan. 

The  priest  had  bandaged  him  up,  he  told  me,  and  the  wound 
below  his  eye  might  have  to  be  sewn. 

'Then  why  have  you  not  gone  to  the  hospital?'  I  asked. 

'The  priest  will  sew  it  up,'  he  answered. 

I.P.  E 


54  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

'But  surely,  Bigi,  if  it  is  so  close  to  your  eye,  it  would  be  best 
to  go  to  a  doctor/  I  objected,  'the  priest  cannot  be  as  skilful  as  a 
doctor— and  an  eye  is  important.' 

'What  you  say  is  quite  true,'  he  admitted. 

'Then  why  not  go  at  once?  You  could  ride  down  on  the  donkey. 
A  thing  like  that  ought  to  be  seen  to  at  once.' 

'The  priest  would  not  like  it,'  Bigi  said,  hesitating.  'I  will  see 
what  he  says  to-night  when  he  comes  in.  Perhaps  I  might  go  to 
the  doctor  to-morrow,  but  I  could  not  go  without  asking  him  first.' 

'Bless  me,  Bigi,'  I  said,  'I  do  believe  you  are  afraid  of  the  priest !' 

Bigi  was  one  of  those  who  dared  openly  denounce  him. 

'Oh,  the  priest,'  he  answered,  'I  think  precious  little  of  him  as 
a  man  and  as  a  priest — but  as  a  doctor  he  is  valuable.  But  what 
a  tyrant!  If  I  sent  for  a  doctor  without  first  asking  his  advice,  he 
would  not  come  near  me,  nor  doctor  me  next  time  I  was  ill  or  had 
an  accident.  One  must  choose  between  him  and  the  doctor.  If  a 
case  is  very  bad  he  sends  us  to  the  hospital,  but  if  he  can  patch  it 
up  he  does  so  himself.' 

'But  you  know  he  makes  mistakes  sometimes/  I  ventured, 
remembering  some  of  Rosina's  stories. 

"There  is  no  doubt  he  takes  too  much  responsibility/  answered 
Bigi,  painfully  changing  his  position,  'and  we  would  much  rather 
have  a  doctor.  But  where  is  the  doctor?  Down  in  the  town.  Do 
you  think  he  will  come  up  this  long  stony  road  if  he  can  help  it — 
for  a  peasant?  He  says  he  cannot  find  the  time — or  some  other 
excuse;  or  he  promises  to  come  and  doesn't  arrive  until  next  day 
or  the  day  after.  It  is  a  proverb  in  the  village  that  a  man  has  time 
to  die  three  times  before  the  doctor  comes.  So  you  see  there  is  no 


CHARCOAL  BURNERS  55 

choice.  It  is  better  to  call  in  the  priest  than  wait  for  the  doctor. 
If  we  are  well  enough  to  go  to  the  hospital  it  is  all  right,  for  we  are 
well  looked  after  there.'  He  paused  and  moved  again,  checking  his 
desire  to  swear  at  the  pain.  '  We've  given  up  trying  to  get  the  doctor 
to  come/  he  went  on  wearily,  'you  know  he  is  obliged  to  come  if 
sent  for — but  that  doesn't  seem  to  worry  him.  They  think  we  are 
such  a  set  of  dullards  in  the  village  that  they  can  treat  us  anyhow.' 

I  had  heard  that  last  phrase  many  times,  and  found  that  it  covered 
a  great  deal  of  injustice.  As  one  was  poor,  these  things  had  to  be 
put  up  with,  but  they  were  never  forgotten. 

No  doubt  the  priest  was  very  efficient,  and  I  did  not  want  to 
undermine  his  reputation.  But  I  was  very  much  astonished  to  find 
he  had  such  power  over  the  villagers.  If  he  had  been  good  or  benev- 
olent or  pious  or  even  liked,  I  should  have  understood  it  better, 
but  he  was  nothing  of  the  sort.  There  were  very  few  who  did  not 
speak  ill  of  him  behind  his  back  or  admonish  him  publicly.  As  for 
generosity,  there  was  not  a  villager  to  whom  he  did  not  owe  money 
— for  wine  ordered  and  consumed,  but  not  paid  for. 

As  he  spent  so  little  of  his  time  in  prayer  and  meditation  he  was 
able  to  occupy  the  greater  part  of  the  day  farming  some  land  which 
he  had  bought  above  the  village.  At  sundown  I  often  watched  him 
cross  the  piazza  on  his  way  home,  sometimes  carrying  a  load  of 
wood.  He  cut  rather  an  odd  figure.  He  wore  his  clerical  knee- 
breeches  and  long  black  stockings  and  a  white  shirt.  Round  his  neck 
was  a  gaudy  coloured  scarf  tied  in  a  loose,  untidy  knot.  On  his 
head  was  a  remarkable  old  straw  hat  with  a  wide  brim.  The  more 
pious  villagers  ground  their  teeth  with  rage  at  the  sight  of  such  a 
spectacle,  whilst  the  more  humorous  exchanged  glances. 


56  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

One  day  the  priest  took  it  into  his  head  to  drive  a  pig  to  market 
in  the  town.  He  did  not  trouble  to  put  on  his  coat,  but  went  as 
he  was,  in  the  gay  scarf  and  the  straw  hat.  The  local  papers  put  in 
a  paragraph  and  ridiculed  him. 

How  that  hurt  the  village  pride  ! 

No  wonder  folks  thought  they  were  all  fools  in  the  village— who 
else  could  tolerate  such  a  priest? 

Plots  were  again  hatched  to  get  rid  of  him.  The  elders  sent  a 
petition  to  the  bishop  and  even  had  an  audience  with  that  great 
personage.  They  urged  that  the  village  children  were  under  a  bad 
influence,  that  they  were  growing  up  depraved  and  impious,  and 
that  even  the  little  ones  swore,  and  had  no  respect  for  the  church  or 
for  the  priest,  who  set  such  a  bad  example.  The  bishop  gave  assur- 
ances, but  nothing  was  done  beyond  another  reprimand  for  the  priest. 
The  bishop  did  not  want  to  remove  him  for  the  simple  reason  that 
he  did  not  know  where  else  to  send  him.  He  did  not  wish  such 
depravity  to  be  introduced  into  another  community;  Campia  was 
already  spoilt  by  his  bad  example — it  had  had  twenty-two  years  of 
it — so  it  did  not  matter  so  much  if  he  stayed  there  or  not — besides, 
no  one  influential  lived  there. 

So  the  priest  remained,  and  the  villagers  grew  more  and  more 
dissatisfied,  except,  perhaps,  a  few.  These  were  mostly  women  who 
were  accustomed  to  consider  a  priest  too  holy  to  be  criticised. 

•  •  •  «  •  •  • 

Three  days  later  Cristofolo  was  at  San  Lorenzo,  rather  dis- 
consolate. The  charcoal  burning  could  no  longer  be  put  off,  and  he 
would  have  to  do  it  alone.  Bigi  was  still  on  the  sick  list  and  his 
two  sons-in-law  were  busy  elsewhere.  To-morrow,  perhaps,  they 


CHARCOAL  BURNERS  57 

might  help  him,  but  to-day  and  to-night  he  would  be  alone.  He 
didn't  like  being  alone  at  night. 

Rosina  was  sympathetic  and  then  she  had  a  brilliant  idea. 

'Signora  Antonia/  she  called,  'signora,  here  is  a  chance  for  you. 
You  always  say  you  want  to  paint  the  sunrise.  Why  not  sit  up  with 
Cristofolo  by  the  charcoal?  You  can  take  that  sack  of  yours  and 
rest  in  it  if  you  are  tired.  Cristofolo  won't  mind — will  you  ? ' 

Cristofolo  was  very  willing,  rather  incredulous  but  thoroughly 
amused.  Rosina  tried  to  convince  him  that  I  would  come,  and  made 
all  the  necessary  arrangements  with  her  usual  aptitude.  Cristofolo 
wandered  off  to  kindle  the  stack. 

It  was  quite  a  long  way  off,  over  the  Ridge  of  Houses,  and  then 
down  to  a  place  on  the  face  of  the  cliff  far  below  the  village.  Two 
gorges  lay  between  it  and  San  Lorenzo. 

It  was  sundown  when  I  arrived,  and  put  down  my  sleeping  sack 
by  the  hut  Cristofolo  had  built  himself. 

Bigi  was  there.  He  had  come  down  partly  on  a  donkey  and 
partly  on  his  feet.  His  father  was  not  a  very  experienced  charcoal 
burner,  and  he  wanted  to  see  that  the  work  was  begun  properly. 

Bigi  ought  not  to  have  come,  his  back  was  so  painful  he  could 
hardly  walk.  His  head  was  still  bandaged  and  his  arm  in  a  sling, 
but  he  stood  there  as  straight  as  a  pole,  as  restrained  and  serious 
as  usual. 

He  was  just  about  to  start  for  the  village,  but  waited  to  have 
a  talk  with  me,  whilst  Cristofolo  went  off  to  get  some  wood  from 
the  farther  place. 

We  were  in  a  little  open  space  surrounded  by  bushes  and  trees, 
cut  into  two  by  a  lower  and  upper  terrace.  The  ridge  was  hidden, 


58  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

but  the  crags  above  stood  clear  against  the  evening  sky.     Below, 
the  ground  fell  away  steeply.     It  was  getting  dusk. 

Bigi  sat  down  on  a  stone  at  the  edge  of  the  lower  terrace.  Behind 
him  a  pole  propped  up  the  branches  of  a  fig-tree. 

Every  now  and  then  the  smoke  from  the  stack  blew  across. 

'You  are  better?'  I  asked. 

'Yes,  I  get  slowly  better,'  he  answered. 

We  began  to  talk  of  Rosina. 

'Signora/  said  Bigi,  smiling  and  looking  at  me  with  his  un- 
bandaged  blue  eye,  '  I  always  want  to  dance  with  you,  but  I  cannot 
ask  you  to  if  you  sit  close  to  Rosina.  I  wanted  to  mention  it,  as  I 
do  not  wish  you  to  think  I  had  been  rude  .  .  .  but  you  know, 
I  have  a  quarrel  with  Rosina,  and  do  not  like  to  go  near  her.' 

'As  soon  as  you  are  well  enough,  we  must  have  a  dance,'  I 
answered,  'hi  spite  of  Rosina/ 

'You  see,  I  shall  never  forgive  Rosina/  he  went  on,  'and  I  told 
her  so  at  the  time.  I  told  her  I  would  never  speak  to  her  again  if 
she  sent  Selina  away/ 

'You  cared  very  much  for  Selina?'  I  asked. 

'Signora,  for  six  years  we  had  been  friends,  Selina  and  I,  ever 
since  she  was  a  little  girl.  I  was  nearly  always  at  San  Lorenzo  and 
I  was  always  welcome.  It  was  taken  for  granted  that  we  should 
marry/ 

'Then  why  did  Selina  go  away?' 

'It  was  like  this/  said  Bigi,  nursing  his  swollen  wrist,  'Rosina's 
relations  from  Cannes  came  to  stay  with  her.  It  was  a  woman  who 
was  Rosina's  cousin,  with  her  son.  They  are  wealthy  people  and  the 
son  took  a  fancy  to  Selina/ 


CHARCOAL   BURNERS  59 

He  paused. 

'Now  you  know  Rosina  well  enough  by  now  to  know  that  she  is 
fond  of  money.  It  just  pleased  her  to  think  Selina  should  marry 
a  rich  man,  and  her  cousin  spoke  a  great  deal  of  the  thousands  of  lire 
her  son  would  inherit.  So  the  two  women  plotted  together  and 
arranged  that  Selina  should  go  to  Cannes — so  as  to  get  her  away  from 
me,  I  suppose — that  would  make  it  more  likely  that  Selina  should 
favour  the  young  man.' 

'And  what  did  Selina  wish  to  do ? ' 

'She  went  to  Cannes  .  .  .  but  she  has  refused  the  young  man. 
Signora — if  you  had  seen  the  cousin,  a  coarse  woman  with  a  bad 
reputation.  I  do  not  understand  how  Rosina  could  send  her  daughter 
away  with  her.  ...  I  went  to  Rosina  and  told  her  what  I  thought 
of  the  whole  business  and  she  said  the  most  insulting  things  to  me — 
words  I  can  never  forgive.  I  told  her  that  if  she  sent  Selina  away, 
I  would  never  speak  to  her  again  .  .  .  and  I  have  not  been  to  San 
Lorenzo  since.' 

'Rosina  speaks  first  and  thinks  afterwards,'  I  said,  'but  I  see 
you  have  great  cause  to  be  angry  with  her.  But  you  know,  I  believe 
she  is  very  fond  of  you — when  I  told  her  of  your  accident,  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears.' 

Bigi  laughed. 

'No  doubt,'  he  answered,  'now  that  her  other  plan  has  failed, 
she  has  a  place  in  her  heart  for  me  again.  But  I  have  no  quarrel 
with  Bortolo.  At  the  tune  he  came  to  me  and  told  me  how  sorry 
he  was,  and  that  it  was  not  of  his  doing.' 

'Rosina  told  me,'  I  remarked,  'that  Selina  was  sent  away  because 
she  was  too  young  to  be  married.  She  is  only  eighteen.' 


60  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

'Signora,  I  am  twenty-eight.' 

We  sat  silent  for  a  while.  I  understood  now.  Selina  had  not 
liked  the  rich  young  man,  but  the  world  was  tempting  and  Cannes 
was  the  chance  of  a  lifetime.  She  would  earn  good  wages  there. 
But  Bigi  would  never  forgive  her  for  going.  Did  she  love  him,  I 
wondered.  Perhaps  she  was  not  sure  of  it  herself.  Probably  Rosina 
had  insisted  on  the  journey,  and  Rosina  with  a  broomstick  in  her 
hand  had  the  best  of  the  argument,  and  poor  little  Selina  had  no  choice. 
She  cried  bitterly  when  she  left.  Bigi's  sorrow  was  tearless. 

I  looked  up  at  the  crags  and  sighed.  What  a  pity  it  was.  Here 
was  Bigi's  life  quite  spoilt,  and  he  was  such  a  nice  fellow.  It  was 
too  bad  of  Rosina.  She  admitted  he  would  make  an  excellent  husband, 
and  if  he  was  not  rich  he  was  well  connected.  Hadn't  his  sister 
married  a  wealthy  grocer?  I  think  Rosina  had  moments  when  she 
repented. 

"The  quarrel  is  only  between  me  and  Rosina,'  he  went  on,  'my 
people  all  go  to  San  Lorenzo  and  the  boys  often  .  .  .'  he  stopped 
suddenly. 

I  turned  to  look  at  him.    He  was  gone. 

There  was  a  crash. 

He  had  fallen  backwards  on  to  the  slope  below  and  was  slipping 
down  it.  I  sprang  to  my  feet,  but  in  the  dim  light  I  could  not  dis- 
tinguish him.  Down  he  crashed  over  the  undergrowth  and  through 
the  bushes — was  he  never  going  to  stop?  He  had  not  uttered  a  cry 
nor  made  a  sound  .  .  .  perhaps  he  was  terribly  injured  ...  or 
dead  .  .  .  perhaps  his  neck  was  broken.  I  stood  waiting  in  fear. 

At  last  he  came  to  a  stop  by  some  large  bushes  and  there  was  a 
long  silence.  I  stooped  to  scramble  down  to  him  when  the  bushes 


CHARCOAL   BURNERS  61 

below  rustled.  Silently  he  scrambled  to  his  feet,  and  standing  still 
for  a  moment  he  burst  out  laughing  ! 

'Bigi/  I  said,  'aren't  you  hurt?' 

'No,  no,'  he  answered,  still  laughing,  'I  don't  think  so.'  He 
pushed  his  way  slowly  up  the  slope  and  clambered  on  to  the 
terrace.  He  stood  up  and  looked  at  me,  and  we  both  burst  out 
laughing. 

'It  was  the  pole/  he  explained,  a  little  ashamed  at  the  indignity 
of  it,  'I  leant  against  it  and  it  gave  way.  I'm  not  hurt  at  all.  I 
just  slid  down  on  my  back,  head  first,  and  protected  myself  with  my 
sound  arm.  ...  Do  you  know,'  he  said,  stretching,  'I  think  it  has 
done  my  back  good  !  It  feels  easier.' 

We  had  another  laugh,  then  he  picked  up  his  coat  and  limped 
slowly  home. 

Cristofolo  came  with  an  armful  of  wood.  We  collected  leaves 
and  grass,  which  he  needed  for  mending  possible  vent  holes  in  the 
stack,  and  we  clambered  on  the  slopes,  talking.  I  often  found  it 
difficult  to  follow  what  he  said,  because  he  talked  the  dialect  so 
indistinctly,  having  lost  all  his  teeth. 

I  expected  he  would  sit  up  by  the  stack  until  fairly  late,  but  was 
mistaken.  He  said  it  was  bedtime,  and  taking  me  to  the  hut,  told 
me  that  I  was  to  sleep  there.  But  I  shook  my  head  and  repeated 
what  Rosina  had  already  told  him  about  my  sleeping  sack.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

It  was  a  nice  little  hut  built  against  the  side  of  the  upper  terrace. 
The  stone  walls  were  five  feet  high  and  a  rough  gabled  roof  covered 
it.  Inside,  stretching  from  side  to  side,  was  a  bunk,  filled  with  dried 
maize  plants — scartorz  he  called  it — and  a  few  sacks  for  covering. 


62  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

In  a  corner  by  the  doorway  a  little  fire  smouldered,  the  smoke  finding 
its  way  out  anywhere.  There  was  no  door. 

He  then  took  me  a  little  way  up  the  path  where  an  overhanging  rock 
made  a  kind  of  shelter.  On  the  stony  ground  he  had  spread  some 
sacks,  and  near  by,  on  a  natural  shelf,  was  his  alarm  clock,  a  lantern, 
and  a  water  bottle.  This  was  where  he  was  going  to  sleep,  he  told 
me,  the  baita,  as  he  called  the  hut,  was  for  me. 

I  thanked  him  for  his  kindness  but  told  him  that  having  brought 
my  sack  and  hi  no  way  wishing  to  upset  his  arrangements,  I  preferred 
to  sleep  in  it.  From  the  hut  I  would  be  unable  to  see  the  sunrise. 

Cristofolo  didn't  believe  in  my  sleeping  sack. 

He  walked  back  and  tended  the  stack,  patting  it  with  a  long 
handled  spade.  When  daylight  was  quite  gone  he  lit  the  lantern, 
and  wishing  me  good-night,  retired  to  his  rock  shelter. 

I  unrolled  my  sleeping  sack  on  the  upper  terrace,  choosing  a 
spot  under  some  trees  which  the  smoke  seemed  to  avoid.  Creeping 
in  I  sat  and  listened  to  the  night  sounds. 

The  full  moon  had  risen  above  Monte  Moro  beyond  the  lake. 

After  a  long  while  Cristofolo  came  to  give  the  stack  another  pat, 
but  his  real  object  was  to  see  what  I  had  been  up  to.  He  found  the 
baita  empty  and  the  signora  in  her  sleeping  sack  on  the  bare  ground. 
He  thought  I  was  asleep.  Muttering  inaudibly  he  decided  to  take 
possession  of  the  baita  and  went  back  to  the  rock  shelter  to  fetch  his 
things.  I  was  very  pleased  to  hear  him  do  this,  as  I  hated  to  think 
of  the  old  man  sleeping  in  that  hard  place.  He  muttered  and  coughed 
for  a  long  time  afterwards,  but  finally  he  went  to  sleep,  and  I  felt 
very  much  alone. 

We  were  too  far  away  to  hear  the  sounds  of  people  and  houses, 


CHARCOAL   BURNERS  63 

nor  did  I  hear  a  dog  bark.  But  crickets  were  calling  all  about  me 
and  mice  rustled  over  the  leaves.  In  the  shadows  myriads  of  fire- 
flies danced  and  darted  and  the  moon  saturated  everything  with 
peaceful  light.  This  was  indeed  fairyland. 

Sometimes  the  stack  would  give  a  mysterious  crackle  and  the 
smoke  blew  about  and  scented  the  air,  but  the  breeze  scarcely  moved 
the  leaves  against  the  sky. 

I  lay  down  and  looked  at  the  stars  through  the  foliage  above. 
A  sweet  sound  came  from  the  top  of  the  tree  and  thrilled  me.  Two 
nightingales  were  there,  and  sang  the  whole  night  through,  another 
sang  on  the  tree  by  the  baita.  I  heard  them  in  my  sleep,  and  when 
I  awoke,  and  I  hear  then  when  I  think  of  them  now. 

At  two  o'clock  I  woke  up.  The  moon  had  travelled  far  across  the 
sky  but  still  shone  in  patches  on  the  terraces.  The  air  was  a  little 
fresher,  it  was  a  perfectly  serene  night.  The  nightingales  were  still 
singing.  I  felt  very  happy  and  very  safe. 

I  crept  out  of  the  sack  to  have  a  look  at  the  charcoal  stack.  Two 
large  vents  were  glowing  in  it,  so  I  went  to  the  baita  where  Cristofolo 
was  fast  asleep. 

'  Cristofolo/  I  called,  '  Cristofolo — Cristofolo  !  The  stack  needs 
tending.' 

'Campanile !'  he  ejaculated,  and  sprang  up  with  his  usual  energy. 

'Truly,'  he  said,  when  he  got  to  the  stack,  'there  are  two  holes. 
Per  Dio,  signora,  is  that  why  you  called  me  ? ' 

'Yes,'  I  answered,  afraid  that  I  had  done  the  wrong  thing.  'I 
thought  it  ought  to  be  seen  to.' 

'So  it  does,'  he  answered,  chuckling,  'it  was  very  necessary.  I 
overslept.  Well — I  never  .  .  .' 


64  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

It  was  evident  that  he  was  profoundly  astonished.  And  why? 
Because  the  signora  had  condescended  to  wake  up  a  poor  man  whose 
charcoal  was  spoiling.  The  few  'ladies'  he  had  come  in  contact 
with  would  never  have  lowered  themselves  to  do  such  a  thing — 
they  would  not  have  cared.  They  would  have  kept  him  in  his  place 
— he  was  only  a  peasant  and  probably  a  fool.  But  this  English  signora 
— campanile ! — he  would  have  something  to  tell  them  in  the  village 
to-morrow.  .  .  . 

I  am  afraid  these  cogitations  kept  Cristofolo  awake  for  the  rest 
of  the  night.  He  was  very  much  upset.  He  muttered  and  coughed 
in  his  baita  long  after  I  fell  asleep. 

I  awoke  before  sunrise.  A  grandson  had  already  brought 
Cristofolo's  breakfast,  and  there  were  sounds  of  hoeing. 

I  sat  by  the  baita  and  ate  the  food  I  had  brought  while  Cristofolo 
sat  and  talked  to  me.  He  had  slept  badly,  he  said,  the  nightingales 
had  kept  him  awake. 

Presently  Di  Marches!  Stefen  came  to  relieve  his  father-in-law. 
He  was  an  expert  charcoal-burner.  He  rarely  spoke,  but  watched 
and  worked,  which  is  the  routine.  He  never  hurried  nor  hesitated, 
but  each  movement  was  graceful,  deft,  and  sufficient.  It  was  fascina- 
ting and  restful  to  watch  him.  He,  too,  found  it  interesting  to 
watch  me — so  we  dodged  each  other's  glances  until  it  was  time  for 
me  to  go  back  to  San  Lorenzo. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   POLICE   COURT 

ROSINA  and  I  had  decided  to  go  down  to  the  town  on  the  day  Nino 
was  to  appear  in  court.  I  had  also  another  reason  for  going.  It 
was  to  see  whether  the  shops  were  as  devoid  of  fruit  and  vegetables 
as  Riccardo  made  out.  I  had  become  a  little  suspicious,  and  began 
to  think  he  said  there  was  nothing  because  he  did  not  want  the 
bother  of  carrying  things  up.  And  it  was  as  I  suspected,  both  shops 
were  well  stocked. 

The  court  opened  at  nine  and  we  arrived  in  very  good  time. 
Nino  was  earlier  still.  In  fear  of  being  late  he  had  started  off  absurdly 
early  and  passed  by  San  Lorenzo  whilst  we  were  still  at  breakfast. 
He  was  extraordinary  cheerful.  After  weeks  of  gloomy  dejection 
it  was  good  to  see.  At  last  the  suspense  would  be  over  and  he  would 
know  the  worst.  At  any  rate  he  was  ready  for  a  tussle  with  the 
authorities ;  in  fact,  he  would  rather  enjoy  it.  The  lawyer  had 
promised  to  defend  the  case  (for  10  lire  paid  in  advance)  and  there 
was  every  reason  to  hope  that  the  fine  would  not  be  so  large.  Besides, 
how  unjust  to  summons  the  poor  fellow  for  having  his  door  open  1 
How  could  it  be  shut  if  some  one  had  just  come  in?  The  lamp  really 
had  been  out,  whatever  the  police  had  said  to  the  contrary,  and 
eleven  o'clock  was  long  past  closing  time.  Hadn't  the  place  been 

empty  of  guests?     It  was  absurd  altogether.     How  could  a  door 

65 


66  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

always  be  locked  if  there  was  only  one  door;  a  body  had  to  go  in 
and  out  ?  The  police  were  ready  to  take  out  a  summons  for  anything. 
Madre  mia,  what  a  world  it  was ! 

Thus  argued  Rosina  as  we  walked  down  the  road  between  terraces 
of  vines  and  olives  and  around  nasty  precipitous  corners.  She  had 
long  ago  forgotten  the  real  facts  of  the  case,  the  jolly  dance  and  the 
scuffle  up  the  back  path.  She  was  most  indignant  at  the  way  Nino 
was  being  treated. 

The  mountain  side  was  lovely  in  the  morning  sun.  The  plants 
refreshed  after  the  heavy  showers.  Rosina  prophesied  a  record  year. 
Indeed  it  looked  like  it.  The  fruit  seemed  more  mature  lower  down, 
and  some  of  the  villas  near  the  town  had  strange  southern  plants  in 
the  gardens,  but  we  saw  little  of  them,  for  the  road  was  walled  in. 
We  passed  Riccardo,  who  was  on  his  way  home,  and  presently  came 
upon  Filip  with  his  oxen  wagon.  He  was  standing  in  the  road 
listening. 

Had  we,  he  asked,  noticed  if  any  carts  were  coming  down?  We 
were  quite  sure  we  had  not — we  had  heard  nothing.  In  these  parts 
you  hear  the  carts  a  long  way  off,  the  locked  wheels  screech  over 
the  stones.  He  took  our  word  and  concluded  it  was  safe  to  continue. 
The  road  was  far  too  narrow  for  two  wagons  to  pass  each  other.  So 
he  prodded  the  near  ox  with  his  goad,  and  the  wagon  rumbled 
on. 

Rosina  crossed  herself  and  said  a  short  prayer  at  both  the  little 
wayside  chapels,  but  she  took  no  notice  of  the  big  church  we  passed 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  town.  We  went  through  several  narrow 
streets  to  an  inn  kept  by  Nino's  mother-in-law.  Here  Rosina  changed 
her  shoes,  putting  on  a  beautiful  pair  of  new  boots  which  she  had 


THE  POLICE  COURT  67 

brought  with  her  in  the  basket.  They  were  too  good  to  wear  on  the 
mountain  road  and  a  great  deal  too  tight.  She  was  very  elegant, 
a  light  blouse  and  a  fawn  skirt,  tightly  laced  and  very  hot.  A  black 
lace  scarf  was  on  her  head,  and  she  carried  a  little  fan.  There  was 
something  very  pleasing  about  Rosina. 

She  took  me  to  the  house  of  the  Signer  godfather,  as  she  called 
him,  but  he  was  out.  It  was  he  who  sent  the  newspaper  to  Bortolo 
every  day  when  he  had  read  it.  Pina  was  his  godchild.  He  was  a 
lonely  bachelor,  Rosina  said,  living  with  a  niece  and  her  husband 
who  neglected  him.  It  was  she,  Rosina,  who  looked  after  his  clothes 
and  made  his  shirts.  She  often  spoke  of  the  Signer  godfather  and  of 
the  interest  he  took  in  Pina.  I  never  heard  a  word  of  any  of  the 
other  children's  godparents.  She  was  a  little  proud  of  this  Signer 
godfather,  perhaps  because  he  was  above  her  station  in  life. 

Quite  lately  he  had  spent  a  week  at  San  Lorenzo,  a  pompous, 
thick  little  man.  My  conversations  with  him  never  got  beyond  polite 
and  unnecessary  phrases.  He  had  spent  most  of  his  time  sitting  just 
outside  the  door,  in  cogitation,  but  he  put  in  a  good  deal  of  time 
with  Pina,  trying  to  improve  her  mind.  They  got  on  fairly  well 
together,  but  I  think  he  found  Pina  a  little  disappointing.  She  was 
only  six  years  old,  a  little  too  young  to  profit  by  pompous  discourse. 

The  Signer  godfather  not  being  at  home,  Rosina  left  the  shirts 
with  a  neighbour.  We  walked  round  the  shady  courtyard  and  looked 
at  the  roses.  I  wondered  at  the  dilapidation  of  the  walls.  One  gets 
the  impression  that  nothing  is  repaired  until  it  falls.  But  I  do  not 
think  that  is  altogether  true,  the  insides  of  the  houses  I  always 
found  spick  and  span,  and  much  brighter  than  the  exterior  had  led 
me  to  expect.  The  roses  climbed  high  up  the  two  houses  in  wild 


68  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

confusion,  and  long  stems  curved  down  and  brushed  us.  Pigeons 
fluttered  on  the  wall,  bright  spots  against  the  blue  sky,  which  seemed 
very  high  overhead. 

Rosina  pointed  to  two  windows  on  the  first  floor  of  the  one  house 
which,  she  said,  was  the  police  court.  As  it  was  nine  o'clock  we  walked 
up  the  stairs.  Halfway  we  halted,  other  people  were  waiting  too. 
The  magistrate  had  not  yet  come. 

We  saw  Nino  for  a  few  minutes  and  his  two  witnesses,  Renzi 
Faustino  and  Silvestri  Girolomo,  all  in  their  Sunday  best.  They 
had  come  to  prove  that  Nino's  lamp  had  been  out  when  the  police 
had  come.  Girolomo  was  a  dark,  hairy,  lean  man,  his  gestures  remind- 
ing me  of  a  goat.  Faustino  was  fair  and  inclined  to  be  stout,  a  jolly 
looking  rogue.  I  never  saw  him  at  San  Lorenzo,  because  he  had 
quarrelled  with  Rosina  about  a  pig. 

The  magistrate  kept  us  waiting  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  but 
when  he  did  come  he  set  to  work  without  any  preliminaries  whatever. 
It  was  a  much  less  formal  affair  than  I  had  anticipated  and  was 
conducted  with  good  humour. 

The  room  was  just  an  ordinary  room  with  light  washed  walls. 
At  the  farther  end  sat  the  magistrate  at  a  long  table.  At  his  right 
sat  the  chief  of  police,  on  his  left  the  clerk.  None  of  them  wore  a 
uniform.  Close  to  the  table  were  two  doors,  one  on  either  side. 
Just  behind  the  officials  were  the  high  windows  we  had  seen  from 
the  courtyard. 

At  the  opposite  end  of  the  room  was  the  little  door  by  which 
we  had  entered,  and  in  front,  about  four  feet  from  the  wall,  was  a 
wooden  barrier  with  an  open  gate.  This  space  was  for  the  public 
as  well  as  for  those  directly  connected  with  the  cases.  No  seats  of 


THE  POLICE  COURT  69 

any  description  were  provided.  Just  on  the  other  side  of  the  barrier 
were  a  couple  of  chairs  and  here  sat  the  round  little  lawyer. 

On  the  wall  was  a  large  notice  saying  that  all  were  equal  before 
the  law. 

The  magistrate  picked  the  top  blue  paper  off  the  pile  before  him 
and  read  out  the  first  case,  the  name  of  the  accused,  the  accuser, 
and  the  witnesses.  They  stepped  out  from  behind  the  barrier  with 
bared  heads. 

The  witnesses,  of  which  there  were  usually  two,  were  taken 
through  the  door  on  the  left.  They  were  not  allowed  to  hear  the 
preliminary  evidence.  In  most  cases  the  plaintiff  was  a  policeman 
and  usually  the  same  one — a  very  efficient  but  unpleasant-looking 
constable. 

He  came  in  from  the  door  the  witnesses  were  taken  through,  and 
gave  evidence  very  smartly  in  a  military,  stiff  attitude  which  con- 
trasted unfavourably  with  the  peasants  easy,  graceful  movements. 

There  was  quite  a  party  behind  the  barrier,  a  collection  of  culprits, 
witnesses,  and  sympathetic  friends.  As  an  audience  they  were 
wonderfully  responsive,  following  everything  with  interest,  amused 
at  the  humour,  horrified  at  the  fines:  There  was  a  good  deal  of 
whispering  amongst  them  even  to  strangers.  They  all  felt  equal,  not 
so  much  before  the  law  as  before  the  magistrate  and  his  assistants. 
They  were  symbols  of  the  signori,  the  ruling  class.  And  if  it  wasn't 
the  magistrate  who  made  the  taxes  and  oppressed  the  people,  he  was 
a  part  of  the  same  machinery.  I  did  not  understand  the  conditions 
sufficiently  to  judge  whether  the  magistrate  was  a  just  man  or  no, 
but  I  am  very  certain  the  peasants  did  what  they  could  to  hood- 
wink him,  and  he  had  to  contend  with  a  good  deal  of  shameless  lying. 
I.P.  F 


70  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

' 

The  first  case  was  a  man  accused  of  carrying  a  long-bladed  knife 
in  the  street.  It  was  late  at  night,  and  he  had  been  in  altercation 
with  two  other  men.  It  was  a  grave  offence.  The  law  forbids  you 
to  carry  a  pointed  knife  with  a  blade  longer  than  an  inch.  Such 
knives  must  be  kept  indoors.  This  law  was  made  to  put  a  stop  to 
the  stabbing  so  frequent  in  Southern  Italy,  but  these  people  of  the 
north  don't  readily  use  a  knife  in  that  way. 

The  next  culprit  had  sung  loudly  in  the  streets  at  night.  He 
pleaded  guilty,  but  defended  himself  with  such  wit  that  the  magis- 
trate himself  laughed  heartily  and  the  unpleasant-looking  policeman 
smiled.  He  was  dismissed  with  a  caution. 

Then  two  miserable  wretches  were  brought  from  the  witness 
room,  where  they  had  been  in  custody.  You  would  know  them  for 
cadgers  anywhere,  small,  underfed,  badly  shaped  creatures.  They 
had  stolen  faggots.  The  plaintiff  was  a  burly,  well-fed  farmer,  and 
had  caught  them  red-handed.  They  were  sent  to  prison  for  three 
days. 

The  next  defendant  kept  a  cafe*.  The  police  raided  it  after  closing 
time  and  found  it  not  only  open  but  full  of  people. 

Defendant  explained  that  he  was  only  having  a  party,  his  friends 
and  relations  were  there.  They  were  his  uncles  and  cousins.  You 
may  stand  your  friends  drinks  after  closing  time  if  you  lock  the 
door  and  take  no  money  in  payment.  The  magistrate,  however, 
was  not  inclined  to  believe  that  this  man  was  so  generous  to  his 
'  uncles  and  cousins,'  and  fined  him  two  lire  and  costs.  When  a  cafe" 
or  inn  proprietor  is  convicted  for  the  third  time  he  loses  his  licence. 

The  magistrate  would  do  a  good  deal  of  arguing  for  each  case 
in  a  conversational  sort  of  way,  together  with  the  chief  of  police  and 


THE  POLICE  COURT  71 

the  clerk.  And  sometimes  the  round  little  lawyer  would  join  in  and 
glance  back  over  the  barrier  for  our  applause. 

This  time  a  woman  came  forward.  I  knew  her  well  by  sight. 
She  had  come  to  San  Lorenzo  with  her  daughter  and  ordered  some 
wine.  Rosina  served  them  in  a  constrained  way  so  that  I  asked  about 
them  when  they  were  gone.  The  woman  was  from  the  town  and  had 
a  bad  reputation.  I  had  doubtless  noticed  the  sign  of  'The  Sun,' 
she  kept  that  cafe*.  Among  the  vulgar  it  was  called  the  cafe  of  the 
Palpitating  Heart.  She,  Rosina,  did  not  like  to  mix  with  such 
people — no. 

Meanwhile  the  proprietress  of  the  Palpitating  Heart  stood  before 
the  table,  fashionably  dressed  in  a  real  shantung  blouse.  She  carried 
a  beautiful  leather  purse  and  wore  all  her  jewels  and  was  ever  so 
striking  and  handsome.  She  threw  herself  dramatically  on  the 
pity  of  the  magistrate.  The  door  had  been  wide  open,  after  closing 
time,  yes,  it  was  true,  but  the  public  room  had  been  dark  and  empty. 
The  light  the  police  had  seen  through  the  door  was  from  upstairs, 
from  her  daughter's  bedroom.  She  herself  had  been  out,  had  just 
run  across  the  road  to  give  a  message  to  her  aunt — she  hadn't  been 
gone  a  minute — and  forgot  to  shut  the  door — it  was  an  oversight. 

She  defended  herself  energetically,  sometimes  indignant,  some- 
times pathetic.  We  all  felt  her  a  wronged  woman,  an  unfortunate 
widow,  when  she  was  fined  two  lire  and  costs.  There  had  been  a 
previous  conviction. 

The  next  to  come  forward  was  a  well-dressed  lad  of  about 
eighteen.  He  had  carried  a  gun  without  a  licence,  and  had  been 
shooting  birds  in  close  time.  There  was  no  excuse  for  him  whatever, 
said  the  magistrate,  his  parents  were  well-to-do,  and  could  easily 


72  AMONG   ITALIAN   PEASANTS 

afford  a  licence,  a  matter  of  about  fifteen  lire;  moreover,  he  had 
previously  been  fined  for  the  same  offence.  This  bright  youth  had 
nothing  whatever  to  say  for  himself  and  the  magistrate  gave  him  a 
jolly  good  talking  to.  In  the  end  he  was  fined  the  maximum  penalty, 
105  lire  and  costs.  We  looked  a  little  fearfully  at  a  youth  who  could 
afford  to  incur  such  a  fine. 

Then  came  a  man  who  had  sold  diseased  orange  plants,  and  after 
him  came  a  lanky  wretch  who  had  committed  several  small  thefts, 
and  was  in  custody.  He  had  ordered  dinner  in  a  cafe"  and  slunk  off 
without  paying,  taking  a  bottle  of  wine  with  him. 

The  lawyer  defended  him  and  made  a  spirited  speech,  bouncing 
up  to  the  very  table  just  to  thump  it.  The  defendant  had  formerly 
been  a  policeman  and  had  a  good  character.  For  the  moment  he  was 
out  of  work  and  had  no  money — and  there  was  the  temptation.  ... 
But  it  is  wrong  to  steal  so  he  was  sent  to  prison. 

I  noticed  that  the  persons  found  guilty  were  either  fined  or  else 
sent  to  prison.  It  was  never  optional. 

The  very  last  case  was  Nino's. 

He  stood  before  the  table  holding  his  hat,  outwardly  calm, 
inwardly  boiling.  Three  times  he  attempted  to  interrupt  the  police- 
man's evidence,  and  three  times  the  round  little  lawyer  called  him 
to  order.  Wasn't  he  to  make  a  speech  afterwards  to  put  all  that 
right? 

Girolomo  was  the  first  witness.  He  was  standing  in  the  street, 
he  said,  when  the  police  appeared.  What  was  he  doing  there? 
What  does  one  do  on  a  Sunday,  signer?  One  stands  about,  (but 
not  at  eleven  o'clock  Girolomo  !).  He  was  doing  nothing.  He  saw 
the  police  come,  and  wondering  what  they  could  want  at  such  an 


THE  POLICE  COURT  73 

hour,  he  followed  them  to  Nino's  house  and  saw  them  open  the 
door.  The  lamp  had  been  out. 

Faustino  told  the  same  tale.  The  police,  however,  insisted  that 
the  lamp  had  been  burning. 

The  magistrate  was  a  little  perplexed  and  turned  to  the  chief 
of  police  with  a  question. 

'For  my  part,'  the  chief  of  police  answered,  'I  always  believe 
what  my  men  say.' 

Then  up  jumped  the  lawyer  like  a  rocket  and  held  a  lengthy 
oration.  He  tried  to  prove  that  the  lamp  was  out,  and  being  out 
that  the  inn  was  closed,  and  went  through  all  the  arguments  which 
Rosina  had  already  thrashed  out.  There  is  no  doubt  that  his  words 
had  \veight,  for  the  magistrate  was  lenient,  and  Nino  was  only  fined 
four  lire  and  costs. 

He  was  pleased.  Of  course  it  was  a  lot  of  money,  but  nothing 
to  what  he  had  feared.  It  had  certainly  been  worth  while  to  engage 
the  lawyer,  even  if  it  cost  ten  lire  and  the  witnesses  cost  about  as 
much.  He  had  to  pay  them  each  a  day's  wages  and  treat  them  to 
dinner.  The  costs  would  amount  to  about  fifteen  lire.  He  was  off 
now  with  the  witnesses  to  dinner  at  his  mother-in-law's. 

'Good-bye,'  he  called  to  us,  'you  will  come  to-night  to  say  farewell 
to  Gaetano  and  the  others?  There  is  to  be  dancing.' 

After  supper  Rosina  and  I  walked  up  to  the  village  to  say  good- 
bye to  Gaetano,  the  Cominellis,  Conrado  and  Agostino.  They  were 
to  leave  on  the  morrow  for  America  via  Paris  and  Havre,  to  exchange 
the  sunny  out-door  life  for  working  under  a  foreman  in  a  coal  mine. 

We  went  to  Cominelli's  house  fully  expecting  that  the  dance 


74  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

would  be  there.  Mrs  Cominelli  had  a  passion  for  dancing  and  ever 
since  the  police  raid  at  Nino's  we  had  danced  at  her  house. 

Cominelli  seemed  just  a  little  out  of  place  in  the  village.  He 
was  from  Southern  Italy,  very  different  from  the  mountain  men. 
The  other  inhabitants  were  so  homogenous,  probably  because  the 
families  had  married  and  intermarried  for  generations  to  such  an 
extent  that  they  were  like  one  large  family. 

Cominelli  was  short,  fat,  and  puffy,  and  ogled  with  big  brown 
eyes.  He  was  handsome  in  an  effeminate  way,  but  he  was  not  a 
bad  fellow,  and  I  modified  my  opinion  of  him  when  I  heard  he  had 
given  his  wife  a  thrashing  on  one  occasion  !  She  was  fast,  and  carried 
on  a  little  too  freely  with  other  men.  Not  with  men  in  the  village, 
but  with  soldiers  or  others  she  picked  up  in  the  town.  Most  of  the 
mothers  in  the  village  were  secretly  pleased  that  she  was  off  to 
America ;  if  it  was  any  one  who  taught  the  young  girls  tricks  it  was 
Mrs  Cominelli.  Her  husband  had  formerly  been  a  custom-house 
soldier,  and  there  were  beautiful  photos  of  him  in  uniform  in  their 
bedroom.  On  his  marriage  he  set  up  as  a  photographer  in  the  village, 
but  it  could  not  have  been  a  remunerative  profession  in  a  place  of 
two  hundred  souls,  added  to  which  his  efforts  were  not  remarkably 
good.  What  other  work  he  did  I  do  not  know,  except  that  his  wife 
owned  a  tiny  scrap  of  land  which  he  farmed,  and  she  had  inherited 
some  money  on  which  they  had  lived.  But  it  was  nearly  gone  now, 
hence  the  journey  to  America.  It  was  said  that  they  were  extrava- 
gant. When  they  left  Rosina  tidied  up  the  house,  which  was  left  in 
her  care,  and  we  found  an  odd  collection  of  things  in  the  cupboard. 
We  found  a  tin  of  Plasmon.  Rosina  looked  at  it  suspiciously  and  then 
gave  it  to  Lucia  for  her  children.  Lucia  probably  threw  it  in  the 


THE  POLICE  COURT  75 

fire.  Plasmon,  who  had  ever  heard  of  Plasmon?  No  doubt  one  of 
these  mixtures  the  upper  classes  indulge  in.  Bah  !  she  wasn't  going 
to  set  up  for  being  a  lady ! 

The  bedroom  upstairs  was  wall-papered.  It  came  as  a  real  shock 
to  me  after  the  pleasant  colour-washed  walls  hi  the  other  houses. 
Great  big  red  flowers  on  a  yellow  ground.  Rosina  had  all  along 
been  secretly  hoping  that  I  would  take  the  Cominelli's  house  when 
they  were  gone — but  I  quite  dashed  her  hopes  on  that  score !  I 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  bedroom,  and  told  her  what  I  thought  of 
that  wall-paper,  and  how  impossible  it  would  be  to  live  with  it.  She 
pointed  in  answer  to  the  windows,  to  the  most  glorious  view.  To 
look  back  into  the  room  was  like  cutting  into  another  world. 

My  strongest  reason  for  not  taking  that  house  was  the  smell  from 
the  courtyard  next  door.  It  was  the  house  of  Bertoldi,  Toni,  and 
Lucia.  They  were  the  most  charming  people,  but  the  courtyard 
was  horrible. 

The  Cominellis  were  busy  tidying  up.  Lucia  was  helping  hi  a 
neighbourly  way  and  her  daughter  Ghita  was  rocking  the  baby  in 
the  dimly-lighted  kitchen.  The  luggage  had  been  sent  on  in  advance, 
so  there  was  no  packing  to  be  done. 

The  farther  room  was  quite  dark,  and  there  was  no  sign  of  any 
dance. 

'No,  no,  signora,'  said  Mrs  Cominelli,  'we  are  not  dancing  here 
to-night,  but  at  Nino's.' 

I  was  thunderstruck. 

'But  this  is  absurd,'  I  said,  'isn't  it  enough  that  he  has  been 
summoned,  and  hasn't  he  this  very  day  been  convicted  at  the  police 
court  ? ' 


76  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

'It  will  be  quite  safe,  signora,'  said  Rosina,  'no  one  will  ever 
imagine  that  we  dance  on  a  week-day.  As  for  the  police,  they  are 
hardly  likely  to  toil  up  here  on  a  Tuesday  just  to  see  what  we  are 
at.  Nino  said  they  might  dance  there.  Come,  let  us  go.' 

It  was  very  sporting  of  Nino. 

The  inn  was  empty  except  for  Teresina.  Nino  had  not  yet 
returned,  he  was  still  in  the  town  with  the  two  witnesses.  She 
expected  him  every  minute.  Of  course  we  were  going  to  dance, 
every  one  would  come  as  soon  as  they  had  had  supper. 

As  she  spoke,  the  door  opened,  and  the  musicians  came  in  looking 
tired  after  the  day's  work,  followed  by  Gaetano,  Raimondo,  and 
several  others.  Conrado,  with  a  pocket  handkerchief  tucked  into  his 
collar  and  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head,  looked  the  picture  of 
dissipation.  He  had  been  drowning  his  sorrows  in  wine,  knowing 
full  well  that  he  would  not  taste  a  good  red  wine  again  for  many 
a  day.  He  intended  staying  two  years  in  America,  but  if  the  work 
were  not  regular  he  might  have  to  stay  longer.  His  father  had  left 
the  lands  to  be  equally  divided  between  his  four  children,  and  Conrado 
wanted  to  buy  his  two  sisters'  share.  The  younger  was  very  gifted 
and  was  studying  to  become  a  school-teacher.  She  passed  her 
examinations  brilliantly  but  needed  money  for  her  further  education. 
It  was  a  three  years'  course.  Conrado,  knowing  how  uncertain  the 
harvest  was,  determined  to  go  to  America  and  save  his  wages  so  as 
to  be  able  to  pay  his  sisters.  He  would  work  very  hard  and  .contrive 
even  to  save  a  little  sum  for  himself.  Then  he  would  come  back  to 
Campia,  dear  Campia,  and  marry  Catina,  the  daughter  of  Giacomina. 
She  was  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  village,  and  full  of  the  fun  and  high 
spirits  which  was  so  marked  in  all  the  Bertoldis. 


THE  POLICE   COURT  77 

The  players  tuned  up,  and  I  watched  Giacom  with  amusement. 
Guitars  and  mandolines  are  made  with  frets,  and  it  was  clearly  an 
oversight  that  bass  cellos  are  not.  With  a  piece  of  white  chalk 
specially  kept  in  his  waistcoat  pocket  Giacom  soon  put  that  to  rights. 

They  were  a  happy  party,  dancing  made  them  forget  the  parting 
on  the  morrow.  Only  the  Cominellis  looked  sad,  watching  us  with 
bright,  tearful  eyes,  and  Catina  sat  quietly  beside  Conrado,  who  was 
too  drunk  to  dance.  Raimondo  and  Gaetano  stalked  about  between 
the  dances  talking  loudly  to  each  other  in  English,  neither  under- 
standing what  the  other  said.  The  listeners,  however,  were  vastly 
impressed. 

'  Drink,'  cried  Gaetano,  filling  the  players'  glasses,  and  gesticulating 
with  the  bottle,  'drink — like  'ell — I  not  care  one  damn.' 

'Jesus  Christ,'  answered  Raimondo,  'sure.  I  come  America  soon 
enough — you  bet — I  come  pretty  damn  soon — ostia  !  ' 

They  had  both  taken  their  coats  off.  On  the  upper  part  of  their 
arms  they  wore  garters,  a  fashion  affected  by  all  who  had  been  in 
America.  Their  shirt  sleeves  were  pulled  up  and  kept  in  place  by 
them.  I  suppose  the  object  was  to  keep  the  shirt  cuff  clean  at  the 
wrist  or  else  to  keep  it  out  of  sight  when  cuffs  were  worn.  In  very 
much  the  same  way  a  navvy  puts  a  strap  round  his  leg  below  the 
knee,  and  pulls  his  trouser-leg  up. 

Gaetano  was  an  elegant  little  fellow,  neat  and  tidy.  He  was 
like  Nino  in  that,  only  Nino  had  long  ago  given  up  the  attempt,  he 
was  far  too  poor  for  fine  clothes  and  his  week-day  suit  was  patched 
in  more  than  twenty  places.  But  it  didn't  matter  how  shabby  he 
was,  even  his  rags  had  a  characteristic  style  and  elegance  about  them. 
When  he  came  back  from  America,  they  say,  he  arrived  in  a  dark 


78  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

blue  suit  and  the  most  wonderful  yellow  boots  Campia  had  ever  seen. 
Raimondo  did  not  particularly  distinguish  himself  for  elegance,  but 
he  had  provided  himself  with  a  large  stock  of  loud  striped  socks. 

Gaetano  was  bubbling  over  with  mirth  and  kept  us  laughing. 
Sometimes  he  would  say  the  most  unblushing  things,  but  he  knew  how 
to  say  them,  and  so  escaped  being  vulgar. 

I  asked  him  to  sing.  He  was  only  too  ready  and  took  up  his 
stand  facing  the  musicians  with  his  back  to  us.  And  he  sang,  oh, 
how  he  sang !  He  lifted  up  his  voice  and  shouted,  and  we  all  yelled 
the  chorus  as  happy  as  school-treat  children  in  a  train.  He  sang 
'Tripoli,'  of  course,  and  who  had  more  right  to  do  so  than  he? 
Hadn't  he  been  there  himself  fighting  the  Turks  and  come  away 
without  even  a  scratch?  Vittoria  and  Costante,  two  inseparable 
friends,  had  fine  voices.  Costante  sang  seconds,  and  except  for  the 
shouting  the  singing  was  delightful.  It  was  spontaneous,  and  showed 
musical  feeling.  Out-of-doors,  of  course,  it  would  have  sounded 
much  better. 

At  midnight  the  door  opened  and  in  came  Nino  looking  like  a 
naughty  schoolboy.  He  knew  quite  well  that  he  ought  to  have  been 
back  hours  ago,  in  fact,  he  had  meant  to.  But  the  time  had  passed 
quickly  with  Girolomo  and  Faustino.  He  thought  it  was  six  o'clock, 
when  his  mother-in-law  announced  that  it  was  closing  time ! 

The  men  at  once  crowded  round  him,  eager  to  hear  of  the  police 
court  affair.  He  gave  it  them  in  detail  with  a  good  deal  of  gesticula- 
tion. He  had  had  enough  wine  to  make  it  picturesque  and  in  his 
own  eyes  he  was  a  great  hero. 

I  was  asleep  next  morning  at  five  when  the  saddened  travellers 


THE  POLICE  COURT  79 

passed  by  San  Lorenzo  for  the  last  farewell,  but  I  was  in  the  kitchen 
when  Nino  and  his  two  sisters  came  back.  They  had  been  part  of 
the  journey  with  Gaetano. 

Poor  things,  they  were  weary.  None  of  them  had  slept,  but  sat 
up  after  the  dance  talking  with  Gaetano  until  it  was  time  to  go. 
Giacomino  and  Nino  were  quite  haggard,  and  Nino's  blind  eye  had 
lost  its  lustre. 

Nino  ordered  beer.  Wine  was  not  enough  for  their  jaded  souls. 
Julietta,  who  was  brighter  than  the  others,  because  she  sorrowed 
less,  told  us  all  about  it. 

'Yes,  oh,  misery,  they  have  gone,'  she  said,  'and  we  all  cried 
broken-heartedly — every  one — even  up  at  the  village — but  Comin- 
elli ' 

'Beautiful  Virgin,'  murmured  Giacomina,  'Cominelli ' 

' he  cried,'  went  on  Julietta,  'and  he  cried — and  he  cried 

so,  we  all  stopped  crying  to  look  at  him.  I  never  saw  anything  like 
it  in  my  life.' 

'Sacramento!'  broke  in  Nino  fiercely,  'he  bawled  like  a  baby.% 

'He  couldn't  stop,'  said  Julietta,  'and  he  couldn't  speak,  but 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands  and  cried  and  cried  and  cried ' 

'And  he  isn't  even  a  native  of  our  village,'  said  Giacomina,  'he 
hasn't  been  there  two  years — I  don't  understand  what  he  had  to 
cry  about  like  that  for.  I  can  understand  that  his  wife  was  unhappy 
—but  she  only  cried  moderately.  But  you  should  have  seen 
Cominelli  ...  he  went  "  bu — u,  bu — u— 

'  Would  you  believe  it  ? '  said  Nino,  '  you  know  he  sent  his  baggage 
in  advance.  When  we  got  there  he  went  to  fetch  it  from  the  goods 
station,  and  they  wouldn't  give  it  him.' 


80  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

'  What !    Wouldn't  give  it  him  ? '  asked  Rosina. 

'No,  he'd  left  the  receipt  somewhere  at  Campia,  forgotten  to  put 
it  in  his  pocket.  There's  a  man  for  you,'  he  added  contemptuously. 
'He  ought  to  think  of  things  like  that  instead  of  crying  so  loudly, 
orca  cane.  Any  one  can  see  he  is  not  from  these  parts.' 

'And  the  baggage?'  asked  Rosina. 

'Oh,  the  blessed  baggage,'  said  Nino  wearily,  'Cominelli  asked 
me  to  ask  you  to  get  it  sent  back  here,  then  the  next  time  any  one 
is  going  to  America  from  Campia  or  from  the  other  villages,  they  might 
be  asked  to  take  it  over  for  a  slight  consideration.  I  don't  know 
what  he  wants  to  take  it  for  at  all.  I  never  took  any  baggage  when 
I  went.' 

Nino  was  cross.  We  sat  silent  for  a  little  while  whilst  they  drank 
the  beer  and  Nino  refilled  the  glasses. 

'And  Agostino,'  suddenly  began  Julietta,  'he  giggled  all  the 
way.' 

'Didn't  he?'  called  out  Paolino,  who  had  been  silent  in  a  corner, 
'didn't  he  giggle,  he  said  nothing  but  "ah — ah,  ah — ah,  ah — ah" 
all  the  tune  !  I  said  to  him  "  Good-bye,  Agostino,  I  hope  you  will 
have  a  good  journey  and  that  God  will  keep  you  till  we  meet  again  " 
— and  all  he  did  was  to  clasp  my  hand  and  say,  "  Ah — ah,  ah — ah, 
ah — ah."  I  hardly  knew  what  to  make  of  it.' 

'Yes,'  said  Julietta,  'he  kept  it  up  all  the  time,  he  opened  his 
blue  eyes  wide  and  giggled  like  this ' 

Whereupon  we  all  began  to  imitate  Agostino's  giggle.  Paolino, 
however,  excelled  us  all,  and  made  us  laugh  in  spite  of  our- 
selves. 

They  did  not  stay  long.    Nino  wanted  to  be  off  to  get  to  bed,  and 


THE  POLICE  COURT  81 

they  wandered  up  the  familiar  road,   thinking  of  Gaetano,  quite 
numb  with  sorrow  and  fatigue. 

The  following  days  Riccardo  made  our  lives  intolerable  by 
constantly  imitating  Agostino's  giggle,  and  only  by  the  practical 
application  of  the  broomstick  could  Rosina  induce  him  to 
desist. 

We  had  been  speaking  of  the  travellers  and  reckoned  that  they 
must  be  in  Paris  by  now  when  the  unexpected  happened. 

Agostino  walked  in  at  the  door  ! 

For  a  moment  Rosina  thought  he  was  a  ghost.  Then  he  giggled 
stupidly  and  we  all  burst  out  laughing. 

The  steamship  agency  had  advised  him  to  return,  he  told  us. 
A  journey  to  America  is  never  undertaken  until  the  agents  are 
satisfied  with  the  would-be  traveller's  papers  and  passport.  The 
regulations  for  third-class  passengers  are  very  strict.  Persons  under 
seventeen  are  not  allowed  to  enter  the  States  unless  accompanied 
by  a  relative.  Agostino  was  an  orphan,  but  he  was  allowed  to  travel 
in  the  care  of  a  friend  on  condition  that  a  relation,  or  a  person 
authorised  by  the  relation,  went  to  New  York  to  meet  him.  If  no 
one  came  to  meet  him  he  would,  in  all  probability,  not  be  allowed 
to  land,  and,  what  was  worse,  the  people  in  whose  care  he  was 
would  not  be  allowed  to  land  either  !  It  is  true  Agostino  had 
written  to  his  grandmother  that  he  was  coming  and  that  she  must 
send  to  meet  him,  but  he  had  received  no  answer  that  she  would  do 
so.  The  agent  advised  him  most  strongly  not  to  go  unless  he  had  a 
letter  in  his  possession  stating  she  would.  It  seemed  a  little  hard  on 
this  orphan  boy  going  out  to  his  nearest  relative.  Of  course  he 


82 

was  not  an  emigrant.     He  would  be  back   in   a   few  years  to  serve 
in  the  army  like  the  other  boys  who  went  to  America. 

There  had  lately  been  a  lot  of  new  regulations.  For  instance, 
a  man  with  a  blind  eye  was  not  allowed  to  land.  This  was  very 
galling  to  Nino,  to  whom  America  was  a  last  hope.  He  was  a  healthy, 
able-bodied  man,  and  just  because  of  that  little  accident  to  his 
eye,  'his  defect,'  as  he  called  it,  he  would  not  be  allowed  to  land 
in  the  States.  He  would  be  one  of  those  undesirable  aliens. 


CHAPTER  VII 

RAIMONDO 

I  MADE  friends  with  Raimondo  over  the  fossil.  It  had  been  used 
to  mend  a  mountain  road  and  I  wanted  it  taken  to  San  Lorenzo, 
but  it  was  too  heavy  for  me  to  move.  I  remembered  seeing  Raimondo 
at  work  close  by,  so  I  went  to  ask  if  he  could  carry  it  down  for  me. 
He  left  his  work  and  came  to  look  at  it,  regarding  me  with  surprise. 
His  brown  eyes  were  excessively  round,  reminding  me  of  a  bird's; 
he  had  a  mass  of  curly  black  hair  and  a  faultless  complexion,  which 
made  him  look  younger  than  he  was. 

He  inspected  the  stone  incredulously,  and  remarked  that  there 
were  plenty  of  stones  farther  down  the  mountain.  However,  I  made 
it  clear  that  I  wanted  this  stone  and  no  other.  So  thinking  that  this 
was  only  another  freak  of  the  signora's  and  that  I  ought  to  be 
humoured,  he  promised  to  bring  it  to  San  Lorenzo.  Besides,  if  I 
ordered  stones  to  be  carted  down  the  mountain  it  was  none  of  his 
business — he  couldn't  very  well  refuse. 

He  brought  it  the  same  evening.  It  was  a  good-sized  stone, 
weighing  about  forty  pounds,  and  he  deposited  it  on  a  kitchen  chair. 
The  whole  family  crowded  round  whilst  I  washed  it.  Raimondo  was 
vastly  impressed  with  the  result. 

'When  you  first  come  speak  to  me,'  he  said  in  English,  'I  tink 

you  make  April  fool,  ostia,  but  I  see  now  it's  a  fine  stone.     Jesus 

83 


84  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

Christ — I  go  many  time  dat  road — see  nudding — you  go  once — you 
find.  You,  signora,  'ave  de  intelligenza,  I  'ave  never  been  to  school/ 

I  inquired  in  what  state  he  had  left  the  road,  and  he  told  me 
he  had  patched  it  up  with  another  stone.  I  paid  him  what  I  thought 
was  an  adequate  sum,  but  I  think  it  far  exceeded  his  expectations, 
and  ever  afterwards  he  treated  me  with  a  great  deal  of  consideration. 
If  I  came  to  a  dance  he  would  see  that  I  was  provided  with  lemonade, 
knowing  that  I  did  not  care  to  drink  wine.  He  would  hunt  the  whole 
village  inside  out  to  find  lemons  for  me.  If  he  met  me  on  the  road 
he  would  offer  to  carry  my  bag  and  entertain  me  with  his  wonderful 
English  conversation.  During  his  six  years'  stay  in  America  he  had 
been  working  with  Yankees  in  the  backwoods,  which  accounted  for 
his  knowledge  of  English  and  a  certain  broad-mindedness. 

He  had  been  able  to  save  a  large  sum  of  money  in  America,  and 
like  Nino,  he  had  sent  it  home  to  his  father  to  put  in  the  savings 
bank  for  him.  Unfortunately,  the  same  thing  happened.  His  father 
drew  the  money  out  and  spent  it.  Raimondo  returned  to  find  he 
was  no  better  off  than  before — so  he  was  going  back  to  make  himself 
another  pile. 

What  Raimondo's  father  had  spent  the  money  on  was  a  mystery. 
He  was  commonly  known  in  the  village  as  Cuckoo,  and  by  sheer  and 
persistent  hard  work  he  usually  contrived  to  make  both  ends  meet. 
He  had  no  time  to  be  extravagant,  nor  did  he  fancy  fine  clothes  nor 
drink  nor  luxury.  He  lived  with  his  wife  and  daughter  and  his  son 
Tona,  who  played  the  guitar.  Three  other  sons  were  in  America, 
and  doubtless  sent  home  presents  of  money,  so  he  could  not  have 
been  so  badly  off. 


I 

(0 

_c 


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in 


C 
03 

O 
T3 
C 
O 


' 

o: 


RAIMONDO  85 

One  day  Raimondo  looked  through  the  sketches  I  had  made. 
His  admiration  was  unbounded,  and  he  went  on  saying  'ah'  like  a 
connoisseur,  nodding  his  curly  head. 

'Signora,'  he  said  at  last,  'I'm  only  poor  man — but  must  buy 
one  of  dese — do  not  ask  too  much,  when  I  am  in  America  I  can  look 
and  remember  .  .  .' 

The  idea  of  Raimondo  buying  a  sketch  touched  me,  and  I  gave 
huii  one  at  once. 

Then  thinking  to  pay  me  a  great  compliment,  he  said  : — 

'Your  little  girl — very  fine  child — marry  when  eleven  or  twelve 
year — not  surprise  me — lovely  child  like  dat.' 

Nino  was  concerned  about  Raimondo  and  so  were  most  people. 
Things  were  not  going  smoothly  for  him.  He  had  continual  tiffs 
with  his  sweetheart,  Di  Marchesi  Angelina.  He  was  passionately 
in  love  with  her,  and  although  she  had  accepted  him,  she  was  luke- 
warm. She  wouldn't  marry  him  now.  She  would  wait  for  a  year 
or  two  years  until  Raimondo  came  back.  She  would  not  even 
promise  to  marry  him  at  once  on  his  return — she  would  see,  and 
shrugged  her  shoulders.  Not  even  the  active  opposition  of  her 
mother  to  the  union — it  was  of  the  broomstick  variety — made 
Angelina  any  more  enthusiastic  either  for  or  against  her 
lover. 

'Angelina  is  stupid/  said  Nino,  who  was  sitting  for  me,  'there 
are  not  many  others  who  want  to  marry  her.  It  is  a  pity  that  he 
is  so  much  hi  love  with  her,  it  frightens  her  a  little.  But  she 
torments  him.' 

Then  he  drew  a  piece  of  paper  out  of  his  pocket  and  showed  it 
I.P.  G 


86  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

to  me.  It  was  the  paper  from  the  police  court  which  had  been  so 
long  in  coming,  stating  the  amount  of  his  fine  and  the  costs. 

I  had  long  ago  made  up  my  mind  that  I  ought  to  pay  part  of  that 
fine,  but  every  time  I  saw  Nino  I  felt  I  could  do  no  such  thing. 
He  was  so  independent  and  proud.  I  couldn't  foresee  how  he  would 
take  it.  Perhaps  he  would  be  insulted.  Anyway,  it  must  not  be 
put  off  any  longer.  So  I  said : — 

'Nino,  will  you  allow  me  to  pay  half  of  your  fine?' 

There  was  a  long  pause  before  he  answered. 

'Signora,'  he  said,  keeping  perfectly  still  and  staring  at  the  wall, 
'I  do  not  merit  it.' 

'I  am  very  pleased  to  be  able  to  help  you,  and  it  is  only  just 
that  I  should,  considering  that  I  was  at  the  dance,'  I  answered 
him. 

There  was  a  very  long  pause. 

'It  would  be  nice  for  me,  but  not  for  you/  said  Nino,  still  im- 
movable. 

There  was  another  very  long  pause. 

I  took  the  money  out  and  put  it  on  the  table.    Nino  didn't  look. 

'Signora,'  he  said  at  last,  'what  shall  I  do  to  repay  you?' 

'There  will  be  nothing  to  repay.  Look,  the  notes  are  on  the 
table,  please  take  them.' 

He  reached  for  the  notes  and  put  them  in  his  pocket.  He  never 
said  'thank  you'  nor  looked  at  me.  He  got  into  position  and  sat 
immovable  for  half  an  hour  with  an  expressionless  face. 

I  felt  embarrassed.  Inwardly  I  blushed  and  wished  I  hadn't 
done  it.  It  had  been  a  blunder. 

How  bitter  the  moments  when  one  repents. 


RAIMONDO  87 

He  sat  immovable  and  I  went  on  pretending  to  draw  him,  in 
silence. 

Rosina  came  into  the  kitchen  and  bent  down  to  stir  the  cauldron 
on  the  fire  close  by  the  immovable  Nino.  But  suddenly  he  came 
to  life,  and  raising  his  left  arm  he  gave  Rosina  a  thumping  whack 
on  her  back. 

'U,'  screamed  Rosina,  nearly  falling  into  the  cauldron,  'you 
without  manners — villano  ! '  and  turning  towards  him  in  a  threatening 
attitude  they  both  burst  out  laughing. 

I  too  laughed  and  felt  relieved. 

'Signora,'  said  Rosina  in  a  hushed  way,  when  we  were  alone. 
'I  have  a  letter  from  America,  from  Gaetano.  It  is  very  private, 
but  I  want  you  to  read  it.' 

I  took  the  letter,  and  this  is  what  I  read  in  Gaetano's  neat  and 
artificial  handwriting  : — 

'DEAR  ROSINA, — I  have  safely  arrived  after  a  fine  voyage.  I 
am  pleased  to  say  I  found  all  friends  here  in  excellent  health.  I 
work  by  contract,  and  can  earn  from  ten  to  fifteen  lire  a  day,  but 
the  work  is  unpleasant.  I  hope  Nino  will  join  me  soon,  what  a 
consolation  that  will  be  !  I  wanted  to  ask  you  to  call  at  Signorina 

Samuelli's  next  time  you  go  to  B .    I  should  like  to  know  whether 

she  is  pleased  with  the  present  I  gave  her,  and  whether  she  regards 
my  letters  with  favour,  and  if  you  get  the  impression  that  I  have 
a  chance  to  win  her  hand.    If  not,  I  will  turn  my  thoughts  elsewhere. 
'With  love  to  all,  Yours  affectionately, 

'BERTOLDI  GAETANO.' 


88  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

'That's  Gaetano  all  over,'  I  commented,  handing  it  back  to  her. 

'Yes,'  she  answered,  laughing,  'he  always  wants  my  help -in 
everything.  It  is  not  so  very  long  ago  since  he  was  here,  asking  me 
to  suggest  a  suitable  gift  for  the  signorina.  I  told  him  to  give  her 
a  workbox.  Now  he  wants  me  to  find  out  whether  she  liked  it !  ... 
The  signorina  is  just  a  little  above  his  station  in  life,  Gaetano  fears 
she  may  not  think  him  good  enough.  Some  time  ago  she  got  him  a 

situation  as  tram  conductor  in  B where  she  lives,  but  Gaetano 

soon  came  back  again.  He  said  it  was  a  dreadful  life.' 

'And  Nino — is  he  really  going  to  America?' 

'He  wants  to,  but  it  will  be  very  difficult  because  of  his  blind  eye.' 

An  official  was  coming  along  the  path  to  the  house. 

'Ah,  the  taxes,'  said  Rosina. 

'Is  it  the  collector?'  I  asked. 

'No,  signora,  he  comes  to  make  a  list  of  the  animals  we  keep.' 

There  was  a  tax  on  all  domesticated  animals  except  poultry  and 
rabbits.  For  instance,  to  own  a  pig  cost  one  lire,  with  a  further  tax 
of  one  lire  when  it  was  killed.  Such  taxes  discouraged  the  peasants 
from  keeping  many  animals. 

The  official  was  nearly  prostrate  with  the  heat  and  the  long  walk, 
and  he  sat  down  in  a  chair  at  the  table  by  the  door  in  a  collapsed 
condition.  Rosina  gave  him  wine.  Bortolo  came.  The  official, 
whom  I  had  often  seen,  was  a  friend.  He  pulled  some  papers  out 
of  his  pocket  and  began. 

'Well?'  he  asked  limply,  mopping  his  face. 

'One  cow,'  said  Bortolo,  'one  pig,  one  dog.' 

'Any  goats?' 

'No,  but  we  are  going  to  have  one.' 


RAIMONDO  89 

'That  doesn't  count.    Any  donkeys?' 

'No/ 

'Anything  else?' 

'No/ 

It  was  all  noted  down. 

'I  suppose,'  said  the  official,  stuffing  his  handkerchief  round  his 
neck  inside  the  collar,  '  that  you  have  been  telling  me  the  truth  ? ' 

'Per  Dio/  said  Bortolo  angrily,  'if  you  don't  believe  me  go  and 
look  in  the  stable  yourself/ 

'No,  no,  I  believe  you/  said  the  official  in  a  conciliatory  tone, 
'but  I  have  to  do  my  duty/  He  yawned. 

Then  he  gathered  up  the  papers  and  trudged  wearily  on  to  the 
village. 

Rosina  went  in  to  finish  some  shirts  for  the  Signer  godfather. 
Bortolo,  with  a  large  bunch  of  withies  at  his  belt,  went  back  to  tie 
up  the  vines  with  Paolino.  Riccardo  dangled  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  in  the  swing  before  they  remembered  him. 

As  soon  as  Cristofolo  stacked  wood  for  charcoal  at  the  farther 
place  I  went  there  to  make  a  sketch.  I  chose  the  evenings  and  worked 
until  dusk,  giving  Rosina  instructions  to  send  a  search  party  if  I 
was  not  home  at  a  reasonable  hour.  The  walk  along  the  precipice 
always  frightened  me,  and  the  only  place  where  I  could  make  a  sketch 
was  on  the  farther  side  of  the  torrent  bed  where  Bigi  had  fallen. 
I  crossed  it  higher  up,  where  it  narrowed,  and  Raimondo  fixed  a 
pole  for  my  feet,  which  prevented  me  from  slipping  down. 

Bigi  was  still  unable  to  do  much,  so  Raimondo  was  engaged  for 
the  harder  work.  He  carried  the  billets  lying  on  the  torrent  bed 


9o  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

to  the  hearth.  It  was  not  a  job  he  liked,  and  he  cursed  much  and 
loudly.  Every  time  he  passed  me  we  exchanged  a  few  sentences 
in  English. 

'Raimondo,  is  it  true  that  you  are  going  back  to  America?'  I 

asked. 

'Sure  I  am,  lady/ 

'Do  you  like  America?' 

'Jesus  Christ — like  it?  Plenty  money  in  America,  not  like  'ere 

work  all  day  for  two  lire,  ostia — and  wear  dese  damn  zupei — wear 

shoes  in  America.'  The  wooden  soled  slippers  are  called  zupei. 

'Why  did  you  come  back  from  America?'  I  asked. 

'Old  people  here — want  to  see  me '  He  carried  a  heavy  load 

of  billets  on  his  shoulder.  'Sacramento,'  he  ejaculated  suddenly,  as 
he  slipped  on  the  stones,  'orca  cane — I  dink  I  were  done — ostia.' 
He  regained  his  foothold  and  a  few  billets  rolled  down.  He  gave  a 
vicious  kick  with  his  feet.  'Dese  damn  zupei,'  and  he  passed  on  to 
the  hearth. 

'And  do  you  mean  to  stay  in  America  this  time?'  I  went  on, 
when  he  came  back. 

'No,  no,  ostia,  come  back  after  two  dree  year.' 

'When  you've  saved  money?' 

'Si,  si,  when  I  save  money — now  poor  man,  wear  zupei,  sacra- 
mento.  Come  back,  marry — no  women  in  America,  ostia.  Las' 
time  I  were  six  year  in  America,  work  in  backwood,  for  two  year 
never  see  a  woman.  Once  tramp  ten  day  to  find  my  brodder.  No 
like  Italiani  in  America — tink  bad  man — no  let  sleep  in  barn — no 
— 'ide  in  wood,  nearly  die  'unger  and  cold — goddam.' 

It  grew  dark  and  he  carried  the  last  armful  down  the  track 


RAIMONDO  91 

He  was  so  strong  and  full  of  such  spirits  and  life,  but  he  was  quite 
unstrung.  He  spoke  in  the  wildest  way  with  suppressed  emotion, 
every  minute  I  expected  him  to  explode.  Oaths  and  gesticulations 
did  not  relieve  his  feelings.  He  laughed  and  joked,  but  it  was  only 
to  hide  the  bitterness.  Why  wouldn't  Angelina  marry  him?  He 
wanted  to  marry  at  once  and  take  her  with  him  to  America.  But 
she  wouldn't.  When  he  pleaded  she  looked  the  other  way.  He  was 
in  a  state  which  he  himself  aptly  described  as  'crazy.' 

'Jesus  Christ — I  go  mad,'  he  said,  'if  I  no  get  away  from  'ere 
soon.  Plenty  bad  people  in  de  village — very  bad — ostia.  If  you 
stay  long — you  get  to  know  dem — bad,  bad  people.  Jesus  Christ — 
dere  is  some  old  woman — real  devil — like  'ell.  .  .  .  You  get  to  know 
dem — you  run  away — ostia.' 

Up  at  the  hearth  Bigi  watched  Raimondo  meditatively,  like  a 
father  listening  to  the  sick  ravings  of  his  child.  He  had  great 
affection  for  Raimondo.  It  was  not  so  long  since  he  had  been 
blasted  by  his  own  tragedy,  and  he  could  understand  what  Raimondo 
was  suffering. 

'When  are  you  going?'  I  asked. 

'Dursday — you  no  tell,  my  people  cry  for  days — best  not  say.' 

'And  Angelina?' 

'She  say — perhaps,  when  I  come  back,  marry — but  no  promise.' 

The  work  was  finished,  and  we  walked  in  single  file  up  the  path 
to  the  Ridge  of  Houses  and  beyond  to  the  fontana.  Here  Bigi  sat 
down  to  rest,  to  walk  was  still  painful.  Most  of  the  others  had  already 
passed  up  the  road,  which  was  deserted.  Ten  minutes  earlier  it  had 
been  full  of  peasants,  goats,  donkeys,  and,  of  course,  children. 

Raimondo  fidgeted,  he  was  hungry  and  impatient.      He  handed 


92  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

me  my  painting  things,  which  he  had  carried  for  me,  and  from  his 
buttonhole  he  took  a  rose. 

'For  you,  signora/  he  said,  bowing,  'because  you  are  a  buona 
signora — ostia/ 

•  •••••• 

The  evening  before  Raimondo  left,  Angelina  and  I  stood  talking 
in  a  doorway.  Raimondo  joined  us,  he  did  not  often  get  the  chance 
to  talk  to  Angelina.  If  he  could  only  make  her  promise  .  .  .  she 
stood  with  averted  face.  Yes,  she  would  marry  him  when  he  returned 
— provided  neither  he  nor  she  had  fallen  in  love  with  any  one  else 
by  then.  That  was  her  line.  Raimondo  was  not  satisfied.  How 
could  he  be?  To  make  matters  worse,  he  had  a  very  jealous  nature. 
Poor  Raimondo,  he  was  in  despair. 

Presently  she  went  home,  afraid  lest  her  mother  should  catch 
her  talking  to  him,  and  he  followed  her  up  the  street. 

I  did  not  understand  why  she  did  not  run  away  with  him  to 
America,  it  would  have  been  such  a  fine  opportunity  for  an  adventure. 

Raimondo  flatly  refused  to  take  over  the  baggage  that  the 
Cominellis  had  left  behind  them.  He  wouldn't  take  the  risk.  If  any- 
thing happened  to  it  he  would  be  held  responsible,  and  he  wasn't  going 
to  the  place  where  the  Cominellis  were  ;  besides,  bother  the  baggage. 

Rosina  was  disgusted.  The  baggage  was  a  continual  source  of 
trouble  and  annoyance  to  her.  It  led  to  a  lengthy  correspondence 
with  Cominelli,  and  he  wrote  her  long  and  very  polite  letters. 

She  clung  to  every  rumour  of  a  departure  for  America.  Twice 
she  walked  to  the  village  beyond  Campia  to  persuade  would-be 
travellers  to  take  the  baggage  with  them.  But  she  was  unsuccessful. 
The  one  traveller  either  couldn't  or  wouldn't,  the  other  had  never 


RAIMONDO  93 

intended  to  go.  In  the  end  she  found  some  one  willing  to  take  it, 
and  right  glad  she  was  to  see  the  last  of  it. 

Raimondo  was  going  by  boat  direct  from  Genoa  to  New  York. 
He  passed  San  Lorenzo  to  take  farewell  of  us,  accompanied  by  Nino. 
They  had  been  up  all  night,  of  course,  talking  and  drinking,  quite 
a  party  of  them,  and  it  was  recorded  as  a  notable  fact  that  not  one 
of  Angelina's  three  brothers  had  been  present.  They  did  not  approve 
of  Raimondo,  at  least  not  as  a  brother-in-law. 

Raimondo  kept  a  cheerful  if  weary  front  whilst  he  was  with  us, 
but  after  we  had  parted  at  the  gate  he  walked  away  holding  his 
handkerchief  to  his  eyes.  He  looked  such  a  lonely  figure.  Nino  walked 
by  him  on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  aloof  and  tactful. 

Farther  down  Bertoldi  joined  them,  and  all  three  went  together 
as  far  as  the  first  houses  of  the  town.  Here  they  parted.  Neither 
Bertoldi  nor  Nino  wished  to  go  farther,  as  they  had  their  work-day 
clothes  on.  Raimondo  went  on  and  was  lost  to  sight  round  the 
corner  of  the  church,  and  the  two  friends  retraced  their  steps  and 
came  to  San  Lorenzo  for  refreshments. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock. 

Bertoldi  was  a  distant  relation  of  Nino's  and  was  also  blind  in 
one  eye.  He  was  a  big  man  with  curly  fair  hair  and  blue  eyes,  quite 
different  from  Nino,  who  was  small  and  very  dark. 

They  sat  down  in  the  kitchen,  and  Rosina  brought  them  a  large 
measure  of  wine. 

Evidently  the  thing  to  do,  if  you  have  been  up  all  night  drinking 
and  talking,  is  to  go  on  drinking  and  talking  for  the  rest  of  the  day. 
Bertoldi  and  Nino  talked  incessantly,  but  their  flow  of  conversation 
was  neither  steady  nor  monotonous.  Sometimes  they  shouted 


94  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

together  or  took  offence  at  a  chance  word,  or  Bertoldi's  anecdotes 
would  get  altogether  impossible.  Even  Nino's  blurred  intellect  could 
see  that.  He  drank  another  glass  and  called  for  more  wine.  Bertoldi 
spilt  some  on  the  table  as  he  poured  it  out.  He  was  sleepy  and 
rested  his  head  on  his  arm.  By  the  afternoon  they  were  nearly  too 
tired  to  speak,  and  swear  words  became  more  and  more  frequent. 

'Women — ostia,'  said  Bertoldi,  suddenly  rousing  himself.  'Women 
are  like  goats — ostia — they  are  mad — sacramento — they  are  devils — 
ostia— with  horns — porca  madonna' — he  drained  his  glass,  'osteria — 
haven't  two  of  our  best  boys  been  ruined  by  them? — ostia — Raimondo 
— ostia — he's  done  for — ostia — and  there's  Bigi — ostia — he's ' 

'Don't  mind  me,'  put  in  Rosina,  'say  what  you  like  about  Bigi 
and  Selina.' 

She  was  highly  entertained  by  this  conversation.  'They  are 
too  funny,  signora/  she  said  to  me  in  confidence,  'stay  here  in  the 
kitchen  and  you  will  be  diverted.' 

When  it  was  three  o'clock  Bertoldi  could  scarcely  keep  awake 
any  longer,  besides,  he  was  drunk.  Nino  was  in  a  rather  less  pitiable 
condition.  Rosina  thought  it  time  to  interfere. 

'Come,  boys,'  she  said,  with  a  kindly  hand  on  each  of  their 
shoulders,  'you'd  better  have  a  sleep.' 

She  grasped  an  arm  of  each  and  led  them  off  to  the  bedroom,  which 
opened  out  of  the  parlour.  There  was  a  large  bedstead  in  the  room 
with  a  pink  coverlet.  It  was  the  biggest  bed  I  have  ever  seen. 
Bortolo  and  his  two  sons  slept  in  it,  but  there  was  ample  room  for 
two  more  people. 

Rosina  helped  the  two  men  safely  on  to  the  bed  and  they  dropped 
asleep. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

CAVALLERI 

I  LOOKED  with  indifference  at  the  handful  of  tiny  silkworms  Rosina 
brought  up  from  the  town.  I  had  seen  silkworms  before,  in  fact  I 
had  reared  half  a  dozen  on  lettuce  in  my  schooldays. 

Rosina  took  them  upstairs  into  a  room  which  stood  empty.  A 
large  tray  was  placed  ready  to  receive  them,  and  she  put  the  little 
crawly  things  on  to  a  sheet  of  perforated  paper  about  a  foot  square. 
The  tray  itself  was  very  large,  about  ten  feet  by  four  feet,  and  the 
bottom  was  made  of  reeds  put  close  together.  Four  stout  poles 
were  fixed  from  floor  to  ceiling,  and  along  one  side  of  each  pole  a 
number  of  pegs  projected.  A  stick  was  laid  across  two  pegs  at  either 
end,  and  the  tray  was  supported  on  this  stick.  It  could  be  lowered 
or  raised  at  will  by  shifting  the  stick  on  to  lower  or  higher  pegs. 

Rosina  was  on  her  knees  at  the  open  fireplace,  trying  to  light  a 
fire,  but  it  would  not  blaze  and  the  room  filled  with  smoke. 

'  You  will  kill  them  with  all  this  smoke,'  I  said,  retreating  towards 
the  door,  half  choked. 

But  she  thought  that  cold,  more  than  smoke,  would  harm  the 
cavalleri,  as  she  called  the  silkworms.  It  was  not  a  warm  day, 
and  the  temperature  of  the  room  had  to  be  kept  between  66°  and 
72°  F.  if  the  silkworms  were  to  thrive. 

'This  chimney  never  draws,'  she  said,  puffing  at  the  wood. 

95 


96  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

'Where  did  you  get  the  cavalleri?'  I  asked,  'are  they  sold  by  the 
ounce  or  the  gross?' 

"They  cost  nothing,  signora,'  answered  Rosina,  still  on  her  knees, 
'they  are  given  us  by  the  society — but  on  condition  that  we  sell 
them  the  cocoons.  It  is  true  they  pay  us  a  little  less  than  other 
people,  but  then  they  send  up  an  instructor  to  advise  and  help  us. 
Pu  !  this  smoke  is  cattivo  ! ' 

The  silkworms  survived  the  smoke.  They  had  a  good  dose  of  it 
the  first  few  days,  but  afterwards  the  weather  turned  warmer.  In 
this  part  of  Italy  it  was  never  warm  enough  for  silkworms  to  be 
reared  out  of  doors. 

The  lady  instructor  came  up  regularly  every  other  day.  She 
brought  a  large  placard  and  pinned  it  on  the  wall.  In  a  space  for 
the  purpose  she  noted  down  the  dates  when  the  worms  shed  their 
skins.  This  should  take  place  on  the  6th,  loth,  I5th,  and  23rd  day 
after  hatching.  Badly  fed  silkworms  are  a  day  or  so  later.  After 
inspecting  the  trays  upstairs,  the  instructress  went  on  to  the  village, 
where  she  had  many  houses  to  visit.  Nearly  every  one  had  cavalleri. 

It  was  an  occupation  which  depended  largely  on  the  women,  and 
was  superintended  by  them.  The  men  always  assisted,  but  they 
were  subordinates  and  did  as  they  were  told.  For  the  time  being 
the  housewife  reigned  supreme  and  the  men  did  not  have  much  of  a 
time,  as  you  will  see. 

During  the  first  two  weeks  Rosina  cut  the  mulberry  leaves  into 
strips  about  a  quarter  of  an  inch  wide,  and  gave  them  to  the  cavalleri 
like  that,  busying  herself  with  them  for  a  short  time.  But  when 
they  had  grown  bigger  she  gave  them  whole  leaves  and  twigs. 

Riccardo   climbed   the  mulberry   trees   and   picked   the   leaves, 


CAVALLERI  97 

dropping  them  into  a  sack  with  a  hoop  at  its  mouth  which  he  hooked 
to  a  branch.  He  would  entirely  strip  a  tree  of  its  leaves,  which  were 
still  small  and  immature.  In  a  very  short  time,  however,  fresh  leaves 
developed,  and  a  tree  that  had  been  quite  naked  was  soon  clothed 
in  green  and  presently  stripped  again. 

In  a  short  time  the  cavalleri  spread  over  the  large  tray,  and  a 
second  was  brought  upstairs  for  them  What  had  seemed  but  a 
handful  turned  out  to  be  tens  of  thousands.  They  grew  and  flourished 
and  every  day  they  ate  more,  rearing  up  their  heads  and  looking 
round  for  more  leaves  when  the  twigs  were  bare.  Rosina  was  always 
giving  them  fresh  leaves.  Riccardo  could  not  pick  them  fast  enough, 
Paolino  had  to  help  him. 

The  perforated  papers  which  the  society  provided  were  changed 
once  a  day,  and  together  with  the  refuse  were  thrown  on  to  the  floor, 
and  swept  on  to  the  balcony.  They  fell  and  fluttered  down,  close  to 
the  kitchen  door.  Bortolo  did  not  trouble  to  carry  them  away.  He 
was  still  busy  in  the  fields,  but  found  time  to  pick  leaves  every  day. 
Riccardo  had  to  help  Rosina  upstairs  now,  it  was  more  than  she  could 
do  single-handed.  More  and  more  trays  were  carried  up,  and  the 
cavalleri  grew  bigger  and  bigger.  They  were  in  prime  condition.  I 
used  to  stand  and  listen  to  them  gnawing  at  the  leaves,  they  were 
so  many  they  made  a  distinct  noise.  Rosina  would  pick  them  off 
the  twigs  with  her  fingers  and  put  them  on  to  fresh  leaves.  It  was 
a  tedious  job ;  she  was  nearly  always  upstairs  now. 

The  work  told  on  her  temper.  She  was  very  tired  and  very  cross. 
She  shouted  at  every  one.  Not  before  ten  o'clock  did  she  get  to  bed, 
and  at  midnight  the  alarm  woke  her  and  she  had  to  get  up  and  feed 
her  ravenous  charges  again.  At  four  o'clock  the  same  relentless  alarm 


98  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

tinkled.  There  was  no  shirking.  Badly  fed  cavalleri  spin  small  cocoons 
and  the  society  buys  by  weight. 

By  means  of  continuous  scolding  and  shouting,  Rosina  managed 
to  be  always  supplied  with  leaves.  She  would  come  out  on  to  the 
balcony  and  abuse  Bortolo  and  the  boys,  singly  or  collectively. 
From  three  different  trees,  in  three  different  directions,  they  would 
raise  their  voices  in  protest.  She  didn't  care  what  she  said. 

As  for  the  house,  it  was  in  an  awful  state.  Rosina  neither  swept 
nor  dusted  for  days  and  days.  The  kitchen  floor  was  a  disgrace. 
There  was  no  water  in  the  buckets  when  I  came  to  do  my  cooking, 
no  one  had  been  to  the  spring.  There  was  no  fire-wood  in  the  box. 
Dirty  dishes  and  plates  stood  about.  Bortolo,  who  vainly  tried  to 
keep  things  tidy,  put  everything  in  its  wrong  place.  .  .  .  Even  the 
copper  pots  and  brass  candlesticks  were  not  polished.  Rosina  never 
neglected  those  cherished  articles  when  things  were  normal.  Now 
she  hadn't  time  for  anything.  She  made  a  laudable  effort  to  wash 
her  face  and  hands  before  dinner,  but  often  failed.  She  had  no  time 
to  comb  her  own  hair,  nor  Pina's  either.  She  had  no  time  for  washing 
clothes  nor  for  cooking.  Bortolo  made  the  polenta,  and  they  practically 
lived  on  that  alone.  Meals  were  at  unstated  intervals.  Rosina  had 
no  time  to  sit  down  at  table,  she  snatched  a  chunk  of  polenta  when- 
ever she  was  hungry,  and  ate  it  amongst  the  silkworms.  For  supper 
she  made  a  hasty  sort  of  minestra — but  it  was  not  nice. 

Neither  Bortolo  nor  the  boys  complained.  They  had  been  through 
it  before,  and  knew  what  to  expect.  Besides,  who  would  dare  com- 
plain when  Rosina  was  on  the  warpath? 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  her  family  was  neglected  and  her  house 
uncared  for,  Rosina  could  always  spare  a  few  moments  to  serve 


CAVALLERI  99 

customers  with  wine.  She  was  never  too  busy  for  a  little  illicit  trade, 
and  she  always  had  an  ingratiating  smile  for  the  tourist. 

I  sometimes  visited  Rosina  up  in  the  silkworm  room,  which  was 
by  now  her  permanent  abode,  but  she  was  in  such  a  state  of  tension 
that  I  feared  to  tire  her  by  talking.  She  ruled  the  house  from  the 
balcony  or  from  within  the  room,  from  where  she  shouted  her  wants 
and  instructions.  Riccardo  got  his  fair  share  of  abuse  every  morning 
when  he  came  up  late  from  the  town,  as  usual.  He  had  to  bring  up 
the  perforated  papers  from  the  society,  and  woe  betide  him  if  he 
forgot  them. 

By  this  time  Bortolo  had  finished  his  work  in  the  fields  and  was 
able  to  help  Rosina  all  day  and  at  night  as  well,  and,  of  course,  all 
three  children  were  hard  at  work.  It  was  a  race  between  the  ravenous 
cavalleri  and  the  people  feeding  them. 

Rosina  was  quite  hoarse  and  the  flesh  round  her  mouth  looked 
used  and  tired.  She  had  grown  very  much  thinner.  How  she  longed 
for  a  night's  rest — she  was  so  tired. 

We  all  suffered. 

•  ••••• 

I  spent  a  good  deal  of  my  time  away  from  the  house,  but  I  had 
to  walk  far  to  get  outside  the  radius  of  Rosina's  voice. 

'  Riccardo,  Riccardo — far  prest,  crettino — bastardo — mostro! '  Such 
words  could  be  heard  beyond  the  fontana. 

In  the  village  I  was  amongst  silkworms  again.  Anetta  and  her 
married  daughter  had  some  small  trays  of  cavalleri  in  the  kitchen, 
Lucia  had  cavalleri  in  her  kitchen,  Francesco's  wife  had  cavalleri  in 
an  empty  house,  and  the  whole  family  of  five  grown-up  people  were 
busily  employed.  The  Biscotti's  also  had  cavalleri.  It  was  a  relief 


ioo  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

to  find  Nino's  house  free  of  them.  Teresina  was  peacefully  knitting 
socks.  I  asked  for  an  egg  and  a  roll,  and  afterwards  for  some  lemonade) 
and  sat  in  the  little  kitchen  with  her  and  Bigi,  and  another  man. 

When  I  had  finished  eating  I  asked  Teresina  what  I  owed  her. 

"There  is  nothing  to  pay,'  she  said. 

'Of  course  I  must  pay,'  I  answered. 

'No,  signora.'    She  looked  determined. 

I  knew  what  she  was  driving  at.  She  was  thinking  of  Nino's 
fine,  and  this  was  her  way  of  paying  it  back. 

'Teresina,'  I  said,  'if  you  don't  let  me  pay  I  shall  be  very  angry. 
Besides — why  shouldn't  I — I  ordered  the  food.' 

'  Signora,  I  could  not  take  a  palanca l  for  it,  surely  you  can 
accept  something  .  .  .  you  have  given  Nino  so  much  ...  so  much 
tobacco.' 

She  did  not  wish  to  mention  the  fine  then  before  the  others. 
But  I  wouldn't  give  in.  It  was  hateful  to  give  with  one  hand,  and 
take  back  with  the  other. 

'Teresina,'  I  exclaimed,  'the  tobacco  I  have  given  Nino  he  has 
justly  earned,  and  if  you  don't  let  me  pay,'  I  went  on  hotly,  'I  can 
never  come  and  order  anything  here  again.' 

'If  it  is  a  case  of  your  getting  angry,'  said  Teresina,  'then  I  will 
accept  the  money  .  .  .  the  cost  is  four  palanche.' 

In  other  words,  twopence. 

'Eight  palanche,'  I  said,  'would  not  be  too  much.' 

'The  bread  is  one  palanca,  the  butter  one  palanca,  and  the  egg 
two  palanche.  Ecco  four.' 

'But  that  is  hardly  cost  price,'  I  said,  suddenly  recollecting  that 

1  Palanca  =  i  soldo  =  i  halfpenny. 


< 

c 

< 


CAVALLERI  101 

Rosina  was  charging  me  four  palanche  for  an  egg — 'they  are  never 
cheaper/  she  had  said — 'and  how  about  the  lemonade?' 

'It  is  thrown  in.' 

'And  the  cloth  ?' 

'  You  have  not  soiled  it,  and  I  can  use  it  again/ 

'And  your  trouble?' 

'It  has  been  no  trouble/ 

It  ended  by  my  paying  her  twopence.  She  took  it  unwillingly, 
and  I  felt  that  after  all  she  had  got  the  better  of  me. 

It  was  the  first  of  several  encounters  I  had  with  her.  Usually 
I  took  the  precaution  of  paying  when  I  ordered  a  thing.  Once,  when 
I  forgot,  she  obstinately  refused  the  money. 

'Very  well,'  I  said,  and  remained  quiet.  Presently  I  called  to 
little  Battisti.  'Here,  Battisti — I  have  something  for  you.' 

Battisti  didn't  come  a  step  nearer. 

Teresina  came  to  the  kitchen  door,  defiant. 

'Signora — you  must  not  give  him  the  palanche.  I  have  told  him 
that  if  he  takes  them  I  will  thrash  him  ! ' 

What  foresight  she  had ! 

She  was  one  too  many  for  me,  but  I  had  to  give  her  a  parting 
shot. 

'  Next  time  Nino  sits  for  me,  Teresina,  I  shall  give  him  two  whole 
bottles  of  beer/ 

'Ah — signora/  and  she  shook  her  finger  at  me. 

On  my  way  home  I  went  to  the  house  of  Bertoldi  Toni,  and 
walking  down  the  long  passage  gave  the  usual  call  of  approach. 

'Permesso?' 
I.P.  H 


io2  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

'Avanti,  avanti/  answered  Lucia  from  the  kitchen.  She  and  the 
four  girls  were  busy  with  the  cavalleri. 

The  trays  were  very  large  and  took  up  about  one-third  of  the 
space,  and  excluded  most  of  the  light.  The  table  had  been  carried 
into  the  passage,  where  they  took  their  meals.  Close  to  it  was  the 
door  to  the  stairway,  which  led  to  the  unsavoury  courtyard,  and  a 
number  of  plants  in  pots  stood  on  the  parapet. 

I  felt  sorry  for  Toni,  more  sorry  than  I  felt  for  poor  Bortolo. 
Bortolo  at  least  could  get  into  the  kitchen,  and  it  didn't  smell  of 
silkworms,  nor  was  the  cooking  done  in  a  dark  place.  On  the  other 
hand,  Lucia  was  not  irritable.  She  was  always  soothing,  managing 
Toni  with  a  few  words  and  a  little  tact.  Rosina's  method  with  the 
peace-loving  Bortolo,  was  to  treat  him  to  a  war  of  words,  which  left 
him  exasperated  but  speechless. 

I  must  not  forget  to  mention  that  Lucia  was  the  sister  of  the 
priest,  which  accounted  for  the  fact  that  there  was  a  small  party 
in  the  village  who  wanted  him  to  stay.  Moreover,  there  were  a  few 
who  wished  him  gone,  but  daren't  do  anything  active  for  fear  of 
falling  out  with  Toni  and  his  wife. 

Every  Sunday  whilst  the  others  were  at  Mass,  Lucia  would  go 
down  into  the  vaulted  rooms  under  the  church  where  the  priest 
lived.  A  stairway  led  up  into  the  vestry. 

The  church  was  built  on  the  cliff-side,  and  the  windows  of  the 
priest's  rooms  looked  down  between  thick  walls  on  to  a  precipice. 
The  garden  was  two  narrow  terraces,  with  a  parapet  and  flowering 
bushes  and  roses  and  a  large  cactus  in  a  pot.  Chickens  and  a  young 
turkey  pecked  about,  running  right  into  the  kitchen. 

Lucia  took  upon  herself  to  make  the  polenta,  whicH  was  always 


CAVALLERI  103 

ready  the  moment  her  brother  came  down  from  mass.  I  once  accom- 
panied her.  The  priest  came  down  exhausted  and  perspiring.  What- 
ever he  may  have  been  in  private  life,  he  conducted  the  church 
services  with  energy  and  fervour,  perhaps  atoning  for  his  sins  in 
that  way.  His  housekeeper  came  down  after  him.  She  was  a  thin, 
hard,  elderly  female,  who,  it  is  said,  drank  as  much  as  the  priest  did, 
or  perhaps  more.  She,  too,  managed  very  cleverly  to  obtain  wine 
without  paying  for  it,  and  Nino's  face  was  a  study  whenever  she 
came  into  the  inn.  He  daren't  refuse  her. 

The  polenta  was  ready,  and  Lucia  sat  on  the  hearthstone  whilst 
they  ate,  and  I  too,  for  the  priest  was  hospitable.  But  he  sickened 
me  with  unpleasant  jokes  of  double  meaning.  He  found  me  very 
dense.  After  the  meal  he  offered  me  a  cigar. 

But  to  return. 

Lucia  and  the  girls  were  changing  the  cavalleri  on  to  fresh  leaves, 
and  the  floor  was  littered  with  paper  and  refuse,  faded  leaves,  and 
bare  twigs.  Little  Emilio  was  toddling  about  trying  to  help,  but 
squashing  the  cavalleri  with  his  little  fingers.  Quite  a  number  were 
in  the  part  set  aside  for  sick  and  wounded  silkworms. 

If  the  floor  was  untidy  the  inhabitants  were  worse.  None  of  the 
children  had  brushed  or  combed  her  hair.  All  of  them  had  dirty  feet, 
and  Emilio  had  a  sore  toe.  Lucia's  coiffure  was  from  last  Sunday, 
and  would  probably  go  on  until  next.  They  were  an  untidy  crew, 
but  made  up  for  it  by  charm  and  temperament.  I  think  it  must 
have  been  Lucia  who  brought  this  untidy  element  into  the  family, 
as  all  the  other  Bertoldis  were  neat  and  clean.  They  formed  the 
nucleus  of  the  upper  ten  of  the  village,  together  with  the  Castellis 
and  the  Di  Marchesis.  They  were  worthy  upholders  of  its  best  traditions. 


104  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

Bertoldi  Toni  himself  liked  things  to  be  spick  and  span,  and  he 
was  very  sensitive  about  his  own  appearance.  He  was  ashamed  of 
the  patches  on  his  trousers  and  of  his  ragged  shirt.  On  a  week-day 
he  would  slink  out  of  the  back  door  if  he  heard  me  coming;  but  when 
dressed  in  his  Sunday  clothes  he  would  come  and  talk  to  me.  He 
was  ashamed,  too,  of  his  limp,  and  tried  to  hide  it  from  me  as  much 
as  possible.  If  we  were  together,  he  would  walk  a  little  behind  me, 
and  he  could  never  bear  to  come  towards  me  on  the  road.  He  would 
stand  still  and  wait  until  I  had  passed  by. 

Above  all  things  he  cherished  an  old  piano  which  was  kept  in  a 
bedroom  upstairs.  He  could  play  any  tune  on  it,  but  was  quite 
unable  to  read  a  note  of  music.  I  loved  to  hear  him  play.  There  was 
something  about  it  which  made  up  for  lack  of  technique.  He  loved 
music  and  played  from  his  heart.  Many  happy  hours  we  spent  in 
the  room  upstairs. 

'La  vegne  so — la  vegne  so/  he  would  say  to  me  on  a  Sunday 
afternoon,  'si'ora,  la  vegne  so/  which  means  'signora,  come  upstairs/ 

We  would  go  up  and  play  by  turns.  The  piano  was  miserable 
and  out  of  tune,  but  we  did  not  heed  that.  Sometimes  we  would  go 
to  the  church  and  play  the  organ. 

But  Toni  was  not  at  home  now.  Probably  he  was  only  too 
pleased  to  escape  from  the  cavalleri  and  climb  a  tree  to  pick  mulberry 
leaves,  or  perhaps  he  was  up  on  the  Ridge  of  Chestnuts  with  his  son, 
Vittorio,  carting  stones  to  the  limekiln. 

I  sat  down  in  the  kitchen  and  discussed  the  cavalleri.  They  were 
much  bigger  than  Rosina's,  but  then,  they  were  a  different  sort. 
Lucia  said  they  were  Chinese. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  competition  amongst  the  cavalleri  rearers. 


CAVALLERI  105 

I  was  always  questioned  about  Rosina's  worms,  and  when  they  had 
shed  their  skins,  and  how  big  they  were  compared  with  some  one 
else's.  Rosina  always  expected  me  to  bring  her  detailed  accounts 
of  all  the  cavelleri  I  had  seen  in  the  village. 

As  usual,  Lucia  and  I  did  most  of  the  talking,  the  girls  listened. 
Ghita  once  told  me  that  listening  to  my  conversation  was  the  only 
means  she  had  of  improving  her  mind — which  was  somewhat 
embarrassing  for  me !  We  got  on  very  well  together ;  she  was  an 
interesting  girl.  In  little  things  she  was  untruthful,  but  the  lies 
were  prompted  by  tact,  and  were  so  palpable  that  there  was  no 
deception. 

I  taught  her  to  read  music.  She  could  pick  out  tunes  in  the 
way  her  father  did,  and  she  was  very  anxious  to  learn  more.  She 
mastered  the  principles  of  written  music  in  a  remarkably  short  time, 
and  then  it  needed  only  practice.  She  was  soon  able  to  play  easy 
exercises.  Sometimes  Toni  would  come  upstairs  and  ask  me  to  play 
them  through  from  the  book,  in  order  to  hear  if  Ghita  had  been 
practising  them  correctly. 

'You  are  not  like  an  Italian,  signora,'  Ghita  would  say,  'they 
never  teach  us  anything — on  the  contrary,  they  jealously  guard 
what  they  know  from  us.  You  are  molta  buona.' 

Ghita  was  seventeen,  a  fine  girl  in  perfect  health,  dark  skinned, 
with  a  blush  on  her  cheeks.  The  girls  all  had  beautiful  dark  eyes 
except  Carolina,  who  had  hazel  eyes,  drooping  lids,  and  a  pasty 
face.  She  had  none  of  the  capability  and  natural  tact  which  dis- 
tinguished Vittorio  and  Ghita.  She  had  been  ill  for  many  years, 
and  after  the  doctors  had  given  her  up  she  was  cured  by  a  quack 
from  across  the  lake.  She  looked  older  than  Ghita,  but  was  a 


106  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

year  younger.  Paolino  worshipped  Carolina  from  a  distance. 
'Signora,'  he  had  said  to  me  in  a  burst  of  confidence,  'Signora, 
that  girl  is  far  too  beautiful ! ' 

In  a  short  time  I  went  back  to  San  Lorenzo.  Half-way  down  I 
met  Giacomi  and  his  wife,  and  a  donkey  laden  with  sacks. 

'Mulberry  leaves,'  said  the  beautiful  Francesca,  following  my 
glance,  'mulberry  leaves  for  the  cavalleri.' 

'Have  you  no  trees?'  I  asked  in  surprise. 

'Yes,'  answered  Giacomi,  'I  have  several  mulberry  trees,  but 
the  cavalleri  have  eaten  all  the  leaves  up.  So  now  we  have  to  buy 
them.' 

'How  is  that  done?'  I  asked. 

'You  hire  the  tree  and  pick  the  leaves  as  you  want  them.  These 
are  from  the  town.' 

'As  far  off  as  that?' 

'Signora,  that  is  nothing.  Some  years  it  is  impossible  to  get 
leaves,  and  we  have  to  send  a  much  greater  distance.  .  .  .' 

They  passed  on. 

San  Lorenzo  looked  very  desolate. 

Bortolo  was  making  a  grand  mess  carrying  brushwood  upstairs 
into  the  attic.  It  was  for  the1  cavalleri.  The  time  had  come  for  them 
to  make  the  cocoons,  and  as  soon  as  they  showed  signs  of  spinning, 
they  were  carried  up  and  put  on  the  brushwood.  The  whole  attic 
was  taken  up  with  these  bushes,  which  Bortolo  carefully  set  up. 

Besides  the  work  of  feeding  the  cavalleri,  they  now  had  to  be 
closely  watched.  Those  ready  to  spin  had  to  be  taken  upstairs  at 
once,  before  a  cocoon  was  started,  and  all  the  trays  had  continually 
to  be  looked  over.  Even  then  many  evaded  Rosina's  vigilance,  and 


CAVALLERI  107 

climbing  up  the  pole  to  the  ceiling,  were  spinning  in  the  corners  of 
the  room. 

The  cavalleri  were  put  on  a  large  tin  tray  which  Riccardo  carried 
up  into  the  attic,  where  he  distributed  them  carefully  on  the  bushes, 
for  if  they  got  too  close  together  double  cocoons  are  spun.  I  never 
realised  the  number  of  cavalleri  Rosina  had  until  I  saw  the  thousands 
and  thousands  of  golden  cocoons  amongst  the  brushwood.  In  the 
uncertain  light  of  the  attic  they  looked  like  myriads  of  Chinese 
lanterns.  I  do  not  know  how  many  there  were,  but  if  the  little  handful 
Rosina  had  shown  me  weighed  not  more  than  one  ounce,  there  must 
have  been  nearly  thirty-five  thousand  cavalleri.  It  takes  quite  a 
ton  of  leaves  to  rear  as  many  as  that. 

Of  course  they  weren't  all  ready  to  spin  on  the  same  day,  a  few 
precocious  ones  began  and  the  others  followed,  and  more  and  more 
— they  were  carried  up  to  the  attic  day  and  night. 

It  took  only  a  few  days  for  the  cocoons  to  be  finished.  Then  they 
had  to  be  carefully  picked  off  and  put  into  baskets.  A  certain  number 
had  to  be  freed  from  floss,  and  the  pupae  kept  for  breeding  purposes. 
The  remaining  cocoons  were  delivered  as  they  were.  The  society 
announced  the  date  for  delivery,  and  the  whole  family  were  harder 
at  work  than  ever  getting  all  ready  to  time. 

Rosina  drooped.  She  was  hoarse,  and  lacked  the  energy  to 
shout,  but  it  didn't  matter,  as  every  one  was  in  the  room  with  her. 
It  was  most  tedious  to  free  the  pupae  from  floss.  They  were  put  on 
a  board  with  an  iron  rod  across  it,  and  one  of  the  boys  turned  the 
handle.  The  cocoons  were  tipped  up  against  the  rod  and  the  threads 
caught  on  it,  and  yard  after  yard  gradually  wound  off.  The  boys 
turned  the  handle  all  day,  even  Pina  had  to  help.  Bortolo  kept 


io8  AMONG   ITALIAN   PEASANTS 

running  up  to  the  attic  to  pick  the  cocoons  off  the  brushwood.    Then 
he  came  down  and  made  the  polenta,  and  they  all  ate  chunks  of  it 

upstairs. 

•  •••••• 

At  last  it  was  over  and  fresh  flowers  stood  before  the  little  image 
of  St.  Antonio  on  the  landing. 

Rosina,  strengthened  by  a  night's  rest,  was  polishing  copper  pots 
in  the  kitchen.  She  was  dismally  thinking  of  her  work  that  was  so 
behindhand.  There  was  so  much  washing  she  would  have  to  ask 
Ghita  to  help  her  with  it;  there  was  mending  to  be  done,  there  was 
sewing,  there  was  Selina  to  whom  she  hadn't  written  for  weeks. 
The  whole  house  needed  a  clean  up,  and  next  week  the  weary  work 
of  bottle-washing  must  be  begun.  She  hadn't  been  to  mass  for  weeks* 
Madre  mia,  what  slavery !  She  would  never  look  at  a  silkworm  if  it 

wasn't  for  the  money  .  .  .  one  had  to  have  money  .  .  .  and  there 

* 
were  debts.    How  they  weighed  on  her  ;  not  so  Bortolo,  he  was  always 

tranquillo,  nothing  ever   disturbed  him  ...  it  was   she — she  who 
had  to  think  of  everything.  .  .  . 

And  the  cavalleri?  The  work,  from  start  to  finish,  had  covered 
forty  days,  and  Rosina's  cocoons  had  weighed  fifty-six  kilograms. 
The  society  paid  four  lire  the  kilo — so  Rosina  had  earned  exactly 
224  lire,  which  is  all  but  £9. 


CHAPTER  IX 

LIME   BURNERS 

BERTOLDI  TONI  was  burning  lime.  For  weeks  past  he  and  his  son 
Vittorio  had  been  carting  stones  and  building  up  the  furnace  on 
the  Ridge  of  Chestnuts.  It  was  a  singularly  barren  spot,  and  the 
chestnut-trees,  after  which  it  had  been  named,  were  long  ago  hewn 
down  and  had  left  no  descendants. 

One  afternoon  I  walked  up  to  see  what  Toni  was  at.  As  I 
struggled  up  the  steep  path  I  caught  sight  of  Vittorio  wheeling  a 
barrow,  but  when  I  arrived  at  the  top  he  had  disappeared.  The  barrow 
was  still  there,  together  with  some  runners  for  dragging  stones,  but 
Vittorio  was  gone.  He  was  shy,  I  knew  that,  and  had  gone  off  to 
avoid  me.  I  looked  round  and  wondered  where  he  had  hidden  him- 
self. Close  by  was  a  heap  of  stones,  and  the  beginnings  of  the  kiln 
and  beyond,  right  up  to  the  crags,  was  an  unbroken  slope  of  loose 
stones.  Behind  me  was  a  precipice.  On  my  left  a  path  followed  the 
edge.  Trees  were  growing  half-way  down  the  cliff,  and  I  could  see 
Giuseppe  in  very  blue  trousers  hewing  them  down.  The  place  was 
so  steep  he  had  to  cling  to  a  tree  with  one  hand  whilst  he  hacked 
at  the  next  one,  and  tree  after  tree  went  crashing  down  the  slope. 

I  walked  along  the  path  until  it  was  cut  in  two  by  a  dry  torrent 
bed.  I  concluded  people  walked  over  it,  for  I  could  see  the  path  go 

on  beyond  a  few  feet  away.    The  torrent  bed  bore  no  sign  of  footsteps, 

109 


no  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

probably  the  stones  rolled  down  when  they  were  touched.  It  was 
very  steep,  and  I  could  see  the  edge  of  the  cliff  at  the  bottom.  Here 
the  water  came  to  the  surface,  trickled  over  and  splashed  down  on 
to  the  rocks  by  the  roadside,  forty  feet  below.  Last  spring,  a  land- 
slip had  buried  the  road  at  this  point,  and  Riccardo  had  barely 
escaped  with  his  life. 

I  went  back.  Giuseppe  saw  me,  and  ceased  his  chopping  to  shout 
a  greeting.  Far  below  him  I  could  see  San  Lorenzo,  and  heard  Rosina 
abusing  Riccardo.  .  .  .  But  I  didn't  find  Vittorio.  How  any  one 
so  big  could  hide  in  such  a  place  I  do  not  know. 

One  day  Rosina  informed  me  that  Toni  had  already  lighted  the 
fire  of  the  kiln,  but  she  advised  me  not  to  go  up  until  the  evening, 
as  the  flames  looked  best  in  the  dark.  So  I  waited  until  after  supper 
before  toiling  up  the  path.  It  had  been  mended  and  improved  so 
that  a  wagon  could  get  nearly  as  far  as  the  kiln,  but  the  last  part 
of  the  road  was  impossible  of  much  improvement,  it  was  much  too 
steep,  and  I  floundered  rather  than  walked  up  it. 

Toni  caught  sight  of  me,  and  I  could  hear  him  say  to  his  com- 
panion, '  La  si'ora — e  venii  la  si'ora,'  and  he  greeted  me  warmly  when 
I  arrived  at  the  top.  Tona,  who  was  working  for  him,  was  equally 
cordial.  Vittorio,  they  told  me,  and  the  expert  from  afar  who  knew 
all  about  lime-burning,  were  asleep  now.  They  took  their  turn  to 
work  whilst  Toni  and  Tona  rested. 

The  stones  had  been  built  up  into  a  large  hollow  bee-hive 
structure,  which  was  embedded  in  the  slope,  except  the  front  and 
part  of  the  sides.  The  furnace  glowed  within,  and  could  be  seen 
through  a  small  square  opening.  A  rough  roof  covered  the  space 
in  front.  At  the  side  was  an  enormous  stack  of  faggots. 


i 

LBIE   BURNERS  in 

Tona  was  the  right  sort  of  man  for  lime-burning.  He  was  strong, 
tough,  and  patient,  and,  what  was  also  very  important,  he  never 
shirked  anything. 

Toni  dusted  a  large  stone  and  bade  me  sit  down.  It  was  exceedingly 
hot  so  close  to  the  furnace,  but  it  was  a  good  place  from  which  to 
watch,  and  get  some  idea  of  the  work. 

Toni  picked  up  one  end  of  a  long  thick  iron  rod  which  lay  on 
the  ground.  It  was  about  twelve  feet  long.  Tona  brought  a  bundle 
of  faggots  and  jammed  it  into  the  opening.  Toni  raised  the  rod  and 
fixing  it  in  the  faggot  pushed  it  through.  It  went  unwillingly  and 
dropped  on  to  the  hearth,  which  was  at  a  lower  level.  Then  it  stood 
on  end,  crackled,  roared,  and  toppled  over,  adding  its  remains  to 
the  heap  of  white  hot  ash  which  lay  vibrating.  The  blaze  dazzled 
my  eyes.  Then  another  faggot  went  in,  and  another  and  another. 
Occasionally  there  was  a  short  respite,  but  the  furnace  had  to  be 
continually  fed  for  five  days  and  nights. 

They  took  it  in  turns  to  put  the  faggots  in,  the  other  climbed  up 
to  throw  down  bundles  from  the  stack,  or  rested  on  a  stone  near  the 
furnace. 

It  was  very  fascinating  to  watch  the  faggots  go  in  and  be  con- 
sumed. Sometimes  a  big  and  obstinate  one  would  refuse  to  be 
pushed  through  the  opening,  but  usually  there  was  no  trouble,  and 
the  flames  would  blaze  up  and  change  from  green  to  yellow  and  pink, 
and  then  break  out  blue  again. 

I  wanted  to  try  to  put  in  a  faggot,  but  Toni  would  not  hear  of 
it.  I  would  be  scorched,  he  said,  I  had  not  the  strength;  but  first 
and  last  I  would  be  scorched.  It  was  impossible.  I  asked  whether 
my  trying  would  in  any  way  spoil  the  burning,  but  he  shook  his  head. 


ii2  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

There  was  nothing  to  spoil.  The  furnace  must  be  fed,  that  was  all, 
but  he  could  not  allow  me  to  be  burnt. 

We  went  up  the  slope,  and  he  showed  me  the  furnace  glowing 
through  the  stones  on  the  roof,  every  now  and  then  breaking  into 
little  blue  flames.  Close  by  was  the  bunk  where  Vittorio  and  the 
expert  were  sleeping.  It  was  quite  dark,  and  the  mountain  towered 
black  and  solid  above  us. 

'It  will  be  fine  to-morrow/  remarked  Toni,  looking  at  the  stars. 
It  was  important  that  it  should  be,  and  he  was  a  little  nervous  and 
anxious.  I  don't  think  he  spent  many  hours  in  the  bunk  resting 
during  the  following  days. 

We  walked  down,  and  I  went  to  the  edge  and  looked  away  to  the 
distant  lights  of  the  town.  Below  were  trees,  and  I  could  feel  them 
in  the  downy  blackness.  San  Lorenzo  lay  invisible  and  silent. 
Riccardo  must  have  gone  to  sleep  by  the  fire. 

I  turned  and  walked  back  to  the  patch  of  light  where  Tona  was 
working.  Toni  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  This  was  my  chance. 

'Come  on,  Tona,'  I  said  with  determination,  'a  faggot!' 

'Yes,  signora,'  was  all  he  said.  There  was  something  in  these 
people  which  always  responded  to  a  command.  He  fetched  a  bundle 
and  put  it  at  my  feet.  I  had  hoped  he  would  have  stuffed  it  into  the 
opening  for  me,  but  as  he  hadn't,  I  picked  it  up  and  tried  to  myself. 
It  was  frightfully  hot  so  near  the  furnace,  and  at  first  I  couldn't  get 
it  in  because  the  sticks  all  spread  out  and  caught  on  the  wall  and  it 
would  not  go  into  the  opening.  It  set  on  fire  whilst  I  was  trying. 
Then  I  stepped  back,  and,  seizing  the  rod,  lifted  it,  and,  thrusting 
it  into  the  faggot,  pushed.  The  rod  ran  right  through  it,  but  the 
faggot  never  budged. 


LIME  BURNERS  113 

Tona  watched  me  silently,  never  attempting  to  help  or  advise. 
But  I  felt  that  the  whole  honour  of  England  was  at  stake,  and  that 
I  simply  must  do  the  thing. 

After  several  futile  thrusts  with  the  unwieldy  rod  it  caught 
in  the  faggot  and  through  it  went.  I  ran  it  into  the  centre  of  the 
hearth — then  quickly  drawing  back  the  rod,  I  retreated,  for  my 
hands  were  nearly  at  the  furnace  mouth,  and  the  rod  was  getting 
too  hot. 

Tona  laid  another  faggot  at  my  feet.  I  had  not  done  so  badly 
then.  It  went  hi  more  easily  and  so  did  a  third  and  a  fourth.  I 
seemed  to  have  caught  the  trick.  But  my  arms  were  tired,  the  rod 
was  so  heavy.  Tona  brought  me  a  fifth  faggot  and  I  felt  I  had 
scarcely  strength  enough  to  tackle  it.  However,  in  it  went,  in  grand 
style — but  I  was  utterly  exhausted. 

'It  is  enough/  I  said,  and  putting  down  the  rod  turned  round. 
Toni  was  standing  next  to  Tona.  I  felt  like  a  naughty  child  caught 
in  the  act,  but  Toni's  face  reassured  me.  His  blue  eyes  shone  with 
admiration. 

'Well  done,  si'ora,'  he  said,  'I  never  doubted  you  could  do  it.' 

'  Orca  cane,'  exclaimed  Tona,  '  she  did  it  as  if  she  had  never  done 
anything  else  all  her  life.' 

'The  expert  said  he'd  never  seen  anything  like  it ' 

'The  expert?'  I  asked.    'I  thought  he  was  asleep ' 

'  So  he  was,  si'ora,  but  when  I  saw  what  you  were  doing  I  awoke 
him  and  Vittorio — they  watched  you  from  above/ 

Ah,  that  was  why  Tona  had  been  so  liberal  with  the  faggots. 

It  was  hard  work  and  I  did  not  envy  the  men.  Toni  was  quite 
right,  one  could  get  badly  scorched,  it  was  inevitable  if  one  worked 


ii4  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

for  hours.  Hands  and  arms  were  continually  exposed  to  frightful 
heat,  the  rod  became  heated  and  sparks  flew  about  on  to  one's  clothes. 
But  neither  Toni  nor  Tona  were  downhearted,  they  worked  on 
steadily  and  cheerfully. 

•  •••••• 

I  went  up  to  see  them  every  evening.  Each  time  Toni  and  Tona 
looked  grubbier  and  the  worse  for  wear.  They  wore  the  shabbiest 
clothes  for  a  job  like  this,  because  everything  got  spoilt.  Toni  grew 
thin  with  worry  and  fatigue — he  couldn't  trust  uny  one  but  himself; 
when  he  rested,  I  don't  know. 

On  the  fourth  night  I  was  amazed  to  find  Toni  and  Tona  in 
spotless,  clean  shirts.  It  was  so  surprising  that  I  stood  and  stared. 
It  seemed  so  out  of  place,  these  two  grubby  men  on  the  mountain 
side  in  clean  shirts  beautifully  ironed. 

So  this  was  the  result  of  my  insatiable  curiosity  !  Dear,  sensitive 
Tona  was  ashamed  that  the  signora  should  see  him  in  his  rags.  He 
would  never  have  changed  if  he  hadn't  expected  me  to  come.  .  .  . 
No  sane  man  would  change  his  clothes  the  last  day  of  lime  burning. 
And  what  was  more  wonderful,  he  had  persuaded  Tona  to  do  the 
same,  only  Tona  had  gone  one  better  and  changed  his  trousers  as  well. 

I  stood  and  gazed,  feeling  grateful  and  guilty  in  one.  After  all, 
Toni  and  Tona  hadn't  many  shirts.  .  .  . 

We  talked  together  for  a  while.  Toni  was  restless  and  anxious. 
Things  were  not  going  quite  as  they  should,  the  lime  ought  to  be 
ready  in  another  twelve  hours,  but  it  didn't  look  as  if  it  would  be. 
Toni  mopped  his  face  in  a  perplexed  way.  They  were  going  to  rake 
out  the  ashes  now,  and  Tona  went  off  to  fetch  a  long-handled  iron 
tool.  I  retreated  to  a  safe  distance  and  stood  watching. 


LIME  BURNERS  115 

They  worked  together,  both  holding  the  long  tool,  pushing  it 
forwards  and  backwards,  to  and  fro,  until  the  whole  hearth  was 
disturbed.  A  heap  of  ashes  was  raked  through  the  opening,  the  heat 
from  them  was  tremendous,  and  every  inflammable  thing  caught 
fire.  Their  hands  passed  close  over  the  ashes.  At  last,  when  the 
handle  was  too  heated  to  be  held  any  longer  they  stopped,  and  Toni 
put  it  aside.  Tona  carried  the  ashes  away  on  a  shovel  and  they  both 
stamped  out  the  flames  that  had  sprung  up  round  about. 

Another  faggot  was  run  in  and  Toni  stood  watching — as  soon 
as  he  had  his  breath  back  he  went  running  up  to  the  top  again.  What 
was  wrong?  At  this  stage  the  flames  at  the  top  ought  to  have  been 
higher  and  steadier.  Instead  they  flared  up  as  each  faggot  went  in 
and  then  died  down.  They  oughtn't  to  do  that — but  why  did  they? 
Toni  didn't  know.  He  was  afraid  something  was  wrong,  perhaps 
the  whole  thing  would  turn  out  a  failure.  .  .  . 

The  next  evening,  which  was  Saturday,  I  found  them  still  at  work, 
although  the  job  should  have  been  finished  by  midday. 

Lucia  was  there.  She  stood  well  back  from  the  kiln,  a  dark,  dis- 
hevelled figure  against  the  night  sky,  her  face  glowing  in  the  light 
from  the  furnace.  She  scarcely  moved. 

Tona  was  stoking,  Toni  was  up  at  the  top,  watching  the  flames. 
They  shot  up  as  each  faggot  went  in,  and  were  sucked  back  and  flared 
out  of  the  opening  below  where  Tona  stood,  and  then  blazed  out 
again  at  the  top.  In  and  out  they  flared,  making  an  alarming  roar 
— like  a  giant  out  of  breath.  Something  was  wrong,  I  could  see 
that. 

Toni  turned  and  came  down  towards  us.     A  glance  at  his  face 


n6  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

showed  me  that  he  was  living  through  moments  of  intense  anxiety. 
He  was  wellnigh  exhausted  with  work  and  lack  of  sleep.  I  went  and 
stood  beside  Lucia,  and  we  watched  without  speaking.  From  where 
we  stood  we  could  watch  the  faggots  put  in,  as  well  as  see  the  flames 
flare  out  at  the  top.  We  were  on  the  brink  of  a  black  abyss. 

Toni  feared  the  worst.  The  perspiration  trickled  down  his 
blackened  face.  He  spoke  frequently  to  Lucia  in  an  excited  way — 
just  a  few  words,  with  a  gesticulation  and  a  shrug.  She  answered 
quietly  and  sympathetically.  Sometimes  he  just  caught  her  eye, 
and  she  would  answer  with  a  look.  How  well  she  understood  him. 
She  must  have  been  very  anxious  herself,  yet  she  was  splendidly 
calm  and  gentle;  her  presence  buoyed  him  up.  She  hardly  noticed 
me,  nor  did  I  speak  to  Toni,  but  I  had  a  few  words  with  Tona. 

He  told  me  that  the  lime  ought  to  have  been  ready,  but  that 
something  was  wrong,  and  the  fire  would  have  to  be  kept  up  until 
the  morning,  he  supposed.  It  was  possible  that  the  lime  was  spoilt, 
but  it  was  not  at  all  certain.  He  himself  didn't  think  it  was. 

All  the  time  the  flames  rocked  to  and  fro.  Toni  could  hardly 
trust  Tona  to  put  in  the  faggots,  he  worked  nearly  all  the  time  him- 
self. Tona  was  disgusted — didn't  he  know  how  to  stoke  just  as  well 
as  Toni?  Toni  was  too  fussy.  He  was  sick  of  doing  nothing  but 
fetch  faggots,  and  Toni  was  only  wearing  himself  out.  In  spite  of 
his  annoyance  he  treated  Toni  with  the  greatest  consideration. 

'You  must  be  tired  by  now,'  I  said  to  Tona. 

'Signora,'  he  answered,  just  a  little  scornfully,  'I  am  never  tired. 
But  I  shall  be  pleased  when  it's  over.' 

Toni's  anxiety  irritated  him.  I  was  also  infected  by  it.  My 
heart  beat  quickly  and  I  felt  half  suffocated.  Poor  Toni,  his  mouth 


LIME   BURNERS  117 

trembled  when  he  spoke,  and  it  would  not  need  much  more  to  send 
the  tears  streaming  down  his  face. 

What  an  awful  disaster  if  anything  happened  to  the  lime.  It 
was  his  chief  source  of  income,  and  he  had  spent  weeks  getting  it 
ready.  Every  spare  day  and  every  Sunday  he  had  been  in  the  town 
looking  for  buyers.  But  he  wasn't  thinking  of  that,  his  thoughts 
were  for  the  future.  ...  He  mopped  his  face  and  spoke  to  Lucia 
in  jerks.  He  was  irritable  to  the  last  degree — but  not  with  her.  She 
looked  at  him,  and  her  look  was  hopeful  in  a  deferential  sort  of  way, 
as  if  it  were  treason  to  hope  when  he  was  in  such  despair.  There 
was  something  great  over  her  that  evening  and  over  Toni  too,  for 
there  was  nothing  petty  in  his  anxiety.  They  were  in  such  contact 
with  each  other. 

I  left  them  with  a  heavy  heart. 

•  •«•••• 

Next  morning  we  all  went  to  mass  together.  Even  Rosina  was 
of  the  party.  On  Sunday  mornings  she  could  usually  think  of  nothing 
but  preparing  dinner,  but  to-day  she  had  a  pious  turn.  Once  before 
I  had  been  to  mass  with  her,  and  on  that  occasion  she  had  been  very 
dissatisfied  with  me. 

'It  is  not  usual,'  she  had  said,  'to  sit  down  flop  in  your  seat — 
like  you  did — without  first  kneeling  and  saying  a  prayer.  Secondly, 
you  should  not  stare  at  the  organist  the  whole  time.'  (It  had  been 
the  first  time  I  had  heard  Toni  play,  and  the  way  he  rattled  through 
the  tunes  was  fascinating.)  'Now  you  know  you  did;  about  the 
Holy  Water  I  shall  say  nothing.' 

'As  for  you,'  I  had  retorted,  'you  didn't  kneel  half  as  much  as 

the  others.' 

I.P.  I 


u8  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

'Signora — when  you  are  as  fat  as  I  am ' 

'  Heaven  preserve  us  ! ' 

Here  Bortolo  put  in  a  word.  "The  signora  is  at  liberty  to  behave 
as  she  likes.'  The  old  dear  always  took  my  part,  but  he  was  so 
serious  we  both  burst  out  laughing. 

As  we  walked  up  to  mass  we  came  unexpectedly  on  Toni.  He 
was  standing  by  his  front  door,  dressed  in  his  shabby  Sunday  clothes. 
His  face  was  washed,  and  he  looked  as  fresh  as  if  he'd  had  a  holiday. 
He  smiled  at  us. 

'Toni,'  I  called,  'and  what  happened  to  the  lime?' 

'  It  turned  out  all  right  after  all,'  he  said,  'we  finished  this  morning.' 
He  looked  quite  happy. 

'And  you've  had  a  sleep?' 

'Sleep,  signora?' 

'Yes — after  all  that  fatigue.    Aren't  you  tired?' 

'Perhaps,'  he  answered,  'but  we  didn't  get  home  until  after 
breakfast,  and  I  play  the  organ  at  mass,  and  again  at  the  afternoon 
service.  It  will  be  time  to  sleep  when  the  night  comes.' 

I  remembered  yesterday  evening  and  his  haggard  face.  I  suppose 
the  relief  at  finding  the  lime  unspoilt  had  been  as  good  as  a  night's 
rest  to  him. 

We  passed  on  and  entered  the  church.  During  the  service  an 
incident  occurred  which  did  not  add  to  the  popularity  of  the  priest. 
All  went  as  usual  until  that  part  of  the  service  had  been  reached 
where  the  priest  sits  in  the  large  chair  by  the  altar  whilst  the  organist 
plays  and  we  all  listen. 

With  a  sudden  movement  the  priest  got  up  out  of  his  chair  and 
walked  quickly  down  the  altar  steps  to  where  the  congregation  sat. 


LIME  BURNERS  119 

He  pounced  upon  a  boy  sitting  in  the  front  row,  seized  him  by  the 
collar,  and  hit  him  several  times  viciously  on  the  head  .  .  .  then  he 
walked  back  and  sat  down  again  in  the  large  chair  by  the  altar. 

The  men,  who  all  sat  in  the  front  benches,  became  rigid  and  a 
great  silence  fell  over  the  congregation.  Anger  took  the  place  of 
amazement.  The  benches  creaked.  What  would  the  priest  do  next? 
Women  shyly  exchanged  glances,  but  the  men  stared  stolidly  in 
front  of  them,  nursing  angry  thoughts.  How  long  must  they  put 
up  with  that  priest?  How  dare  he  .  .  . !  The  boy  had  only  been 
whispering  to  his  neighbour. 

Toni  played  on,  and  the  priest  continued  the  service.  After 
receiving  his  blessing  we  all  walked  out  into  the  piazza.  Rosina,  her 
thoughts  fixed  on  dinner,  hurried  me  back  to  San  Lorenzo. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE   FESTIVAL  OF  THE   MADONNA 

THE  morning  was  clear  and  beautiful. 

It  was  the  second  Sunday  in  July,  the  day  specially  set  apart 
for  the  Festival  of  the  Madonna.  The  holy  image  was  to  be  carried 
in  procession  through  the  street  of  Campia,  and  there  was  to  be  a 
special  service  and  every  one  would  beseech  God  and  the  Holy  Virgin 
to  stave  off  the  great  calamity,  and  let  this  year  at  least  be  free  from 
a  devastating  hailstorm.  Everything  was  being  done  to  make  the 
day  acceptable  to  God,  there  was  no  one  in  Campia  who  underrated 
its  importance.  Raimondo,  just  before  he  left  for  America,  told 
me  that  it  was  the  plain  duty  of  every  one  to  subscribe  to  the  Festival 
Fund,  and  when  a  few  days  later  a  peasant  called  with  the  subscription 
list  we  all  gave  something.  Sums  from  a  half  to  two  and  a  half  lire 
had  been  subscribed,  so  Rosina,  who  aspired  to  be  better  than  her 
neighbours,  gave  three. 

Long  before  ten  o'clock  we  started  for  the  village,  but  it  was 
already  hot  and  there  was  very  little  shade  on  the  road.  Rosina  and 
the  boys  carried  large  baskets  full  of  provisions,  for  they  had  no 
intention  of  returning  to  San  Lorenzo  before  night.  The  Cominelli's 
house  was  still  empty,  and  Rosina  meant  to  cook  the  meals  there. 
To  judge  by  the  large  number  of  wine  bottles,  she  must  also  be  hoping 
to  do  a  little  illicit  trade. 


120 


THE   FESTIVAL   OF  THE  MADONNA          121 

The  band  struck  up  before  we  reached  the  first  houses  and  the 
children  hurried  on.  Rosina,  however,  could  not  be  hurried.  She 
flapped  her  handkerchief  over  her  face,  and  perspired  and  groaned, 
and  implored  me  to  walk  slower.  At  last  we  reached  the  Cominelli's 
house,  and  she  threw  open  the  doors  and  shutters  and  busied  about. 

I  stood  on  the  back  stairway  which  led  to  the  courtyard  and 
enjoyed  the  sun.  It  seemed  to  saturate  the  white  buildings  and 
everything  was  hot  to  the  touch.  Across  the  water  Monte  Moro 
looked  cool  and  majestic. 

All  at  once  some  one  began  to  sing  next  door,  beginning  boldly 
in  the  middle  of  a  song  : — 

'Guarda  che  bel  colore 
Senti  che  buon  profumo ' 

'Ghita/  I  shouted,  'Ghita.' 

'Ah,  it  is  la  signora,'  she  said,  coming  into  the  stairway  and 
leaning  her  arms  on  the  parapet.  'You  are  getting  sunburnt/  she 
remarked. 

'Yes,'  I  answered,  rather  proud  of  my  tanned  skin,  'look  at  my 
arms.' 

'Italian  ladies,'  she  said,  'are  afraid  of  the  sun.' 

'Yes — I've  seen  them/  I  answered,  'they  all  look  as  if  they'd 
been  brought  up  in  the  cellars/ 

Ghita  laughed,  and  her  white  teeth  shone  in  the  sun.  Then  she 
picked  a  faded  carnation  from  one  of  the  pots  on  the  parapet  and 
threw  it  down  into  the  yard. 

'Then  you  must  think  my  dark  skin  quite  beautiful?  I've  always 
been  ashamed  of  it ! ' 


122  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

'If  you  weren't  in  good  health/  I  answered,  'you  wouldn't  have 
such  a  glorious  colour.' 

'You  are  right,'  she  said,  'the  signore  are  always  ailing.'  Just 
then  the  band  struck  up  another  tune.  'Let's  go  to  hear  the  music 
together,  I  won't  be  a  moment.' 

I  walked  down  the  passage  into  the  shady  street  and  round  to 
the  front  door  of  their  house.  I  had  meant  to  go  in  and  wait  for 
Ghita,  instead,  I  stood  looking  up  the  street. 

What  were  they  hanging  out  of  the  windows?  I  could  see 
Giacomina  busy  upstairs.  She  was  holding  out  a  bedspread,  a 
beautiful  thing  all  red  and  yellow.  She  let  it  hang  right  down  and 
on  the  sill ;  in  order  to  keep  it  in  place,  she  put  a  pillow,  an  ordinary 
pillow,  in  a  clean  white  pillow-case.  Every  house  was  being  decorated 
in  the  same  way.  Just  above  me,  from  the  window  of  the  room 
where  Toni  kept  the  piano,  hung  a  large  white  bedspread.  Next 
door,  the  house  of  Renzi  Faustino,  there  were  several  windows  and 
not  enough  bedspreads  to  go  round,  it  seemed.  The  girl  had  just 
hung  out  a  dark  blanket  and  was  suspending  a  lace  curtain  over  it. 
Then  she  put  a  pillow  on  the  sill,  just  as  Giacomina  had  done,  and 
as  every  one  else  was  doing.  Some  of  the  pillow-cases  had  pink  check 
covers,  and  a  very  few  were  pale  blue. 

It  was  a  simple  but  very  effective  form  of  decoration.  The  whole 
street  looked  gay.  No  doubt  housewives  vied  with  each  other  in  the 
possession  of  bright  bedspreads,  and  I  understood  now  why  Giacomina 
had  once  shown  me  the  red  and  yellow  one  with  such  pride;  it  was 
one  of  her  most  cherished  possessions. 

I  did  not  wait  for  Ghita,  but  walked  on  to  the  fountain.  The 
street  had  been  swept  and  tidied.  Decorative  arches  had  been  put 


THE   FESTIVAL   OF  THE   MADONNA          123 

up  at  intervals,  covered  with  green  twigs  and  paper  flowers.  A  prickly 
plant,1  which  grew  higher  up  on  the  mountain,  had  been  gathered 
and  dipped  in  whitewash.  Stuck  among  the  green  it  looked  like 
silver. 

There  was  a  good  sprinkling  of  people  by  the  fountain,  but  the 
street  leading  to  the  piazza  was  crowded.  A  great  many  villagers 
were  there,  and  a  great  many  other  people  who  had  come  from  neigh- 
bouring places.  On  every  side  I  saw  happy,  expectant  faces.  Every 
one  was  dressed  in  their  best,  all  the  male  part  of  the  population  had 
on  new  shirts,  or  they  ought  to  have,  for  such  was  the  custom. 
Rosina  had  sat  up  until  midnight  finishing  shirts  for  the  boys.  The 
women  all  had  their  hair  carefully  dressed,  and  lovely  thick  hair 
they  had  too,  but  the  men  usually  grew  prematurely  bald  on  account 
of  their  habit  of  always  wearing  a  hat,  both  indoors  and  out.  I  once 
asked  Nino  whether  he  slept  with  his  hat  on,  but  he  shook  his  head. 
I  am  certain,  however,  that  he  never  took  his  hat  off  until  he  was  in 
the  bedroom,  and  that  first  thing  in  the  morning  it  was  clapped  on 
again. 

The  band,  which  had  finished  playing  in  the  piazza,  came 
trooping  up  the  street  to  the  fountain,  and  formed  up  in  a  circle. 
People  crowded  after  and  stood  round  whilst  it  played.  One  or  two 
favoured  small  boys  were  allowed  to  stand  within  the  ring  and  hold 
up  a  sheet  of  music.  After  playing  a  few  tunes  the  band  trooped  off 
to  the  new  road  and  played  a  few  tunes  there,  and  then  off  again  to 
another  spot. 

I  met  Nino  in  the  road  and  greeted  him. 

'Tell  me,'  I  asked,  'the  procession  is  to  be  this  morning,  isn't  it?' 

1  Butcher's-broom. 


i24  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

'No,  signora,  between  four  and  five  this  afternoon.' 

'But  why  so  late?' 

'Because,'  he  answered,  'it  will  be  hot,  and  the  Madonna  is 
heavy.' 

The  bells  pealed  out  and  every  one  moved  towards  the  church, 
where  two  babies  were  being  christened.  The  band  had  taken  up 
its  place  close  to  the  doors  and  was  playing  a  gay  tune.  We  loitered 
in  the  sunny  piazza  until  the  tune  was  finished. 

Then  we  hurried  into  the  church,  anxious  to  find  a  seat.  Men 
and  boys  crowded  in  at  the  side  door,  the  women  all  entered  the 
large  door  at  the  back.  Every  seat  was  filled. 

Coming  from  the  bright  sunshine  the  church  seemed  like  a 
cavern,  but  my  eyes  soon  became  accustomed  to  the  mysterious 
dimness.  I  could  see  the  decorations  and  the  suspended  draperies, 
and  the  special  altar  which  had  been  erected  in  the  body  of  the 
church.  On  it  stood  the  image  of  the  Madonna,  dressed  in  blue  and 
silver. 

Mass  was  conducted  by  two  priests  from  neighbouring  villages, 
and  although  present  our  priest  took  but  a  minor  part.  Toni  was 
absent  from  the  organ  loft,  his  place  being  taken  by  a  blind  organist, 
specially  engaged  for  the  occasion.  He  played  very  well,  but  I 
missed  Toni's  spirited  tunes. 

Beside  me  sat  two  girls.  They  both  wore  hats,  and  for  this  reason 
they  ought  to  have  been  ladies,  for  no  peasant  woman  wore  a  hat 
in  church;  but  their  manners  betrayed  them.  The  stout  one,  with 
a  cast  in  her  eye,  wore  a  fawn  dress  in  tolerably  good  taste,  but  the 
younger,  dark  and  sum,  had  on  a  pink  hobble  skirt  and  a  cheap  lace 
blouse.  They  whispered  together  during  the  service,  grinned  at  each 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  THE  MADONNA          125 

other,  and  spent  very  little  time  on  their  knees.  It  was  just  affecta- 
tion of  manner,  for  I  am  sure  they  reckoned  themselves  to  be  pious. 
If  you  wear  a  hat  you  must  behave  like  a  lady,  and  once  having 
exchanged  the  village  for  the  town,  they  did  not  feel  they  could  come 
back  and  behave  like  they  used  to.  What  a  pity  it  was  that  they 
were  unable  to  discriminate  between  ladies,  and  took  as  a  model 
upstarts  like  themselves. 

Before  the  end  of  the  service,  several  women  hurried  out  to 
attend  to  their  respective  dinners.  No  sooner  had  they  left  the 
building  than  the  bandsmen  hurried  after  them,  so  that  when  mass 
was  over  and  we  all  came  out  into  the  sunlight,  the  band  was  in  the 
piazza,  and  welcomed  us  with  a  sentimental  waltz,  even  before  the 
last  strains  of  the  organ  had  died  away. 

Girolomo  was  a  person  of  importance,  he  had  the  responsibility 
of  all  the  arrangements.  He  walked  about  overflowing  with  goodwill, 
in  his  hand  a  piece  of  paper  covered  with  notes  in  a  large  hand.  He 
was  responsible  for  the  band  amongst  other  things,  and  had  to  see 
that  it  was  supplied  with  plenty  of  wine.  He  had  ready  a  storeroom 
for  the  instruments  when  not  in  use,  and  in  order  that  the  bandsmen 
should  be  properly  provided  with  dinner,  he  had  billeted  them  out 
on  various  families.  Just  now  he  stood  in  the  piazza,  a  large  tray  in 
his  hands.  On  the  tray  were  tumblers  filled  with  wine  which  he  was 
offering  the  bandsmen,  and  coaxing  them  to  take.  A  table  had  been 
brought  out,  and  Gioan  stood  by  it  filling  up  more  glasses.  Then  he 
collected  the  tumblers  and  carried  them  indoors  to  be  rinsed.  None 
of  the  women  took  any  part  in  the  matter. 

Those  who  had  no  dinner  cares  strolled  about  in  the  heat,  looking 
for  friends.  I  saw  Gheco  with  his  mother  and  Appollonia,  and  with 


126  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

them  were  Apollonio's  mother,  sister,  and  brother.  It  was  significant 
that  they  should  be  together— it  pointed  to  an  engagement,  or  at 
least  to  the  first  preliminaries  between  the  parents  of  Apollonio  and 
Gheco. 

All  at  once  the  piazza  emptied.    It  was  dinner  time. 

I  found  Bortolo  giving  the  final  stir  to  the  polenta.  Even  on 
this  great  day  every  one  ate  polenta.  Every  housewife  spread  a 
clean  white  cloth  on  the  dinner  table.  Rosina  had  prepared  a  tame 
rabbit  with  herbs  and  fat,  butter,  and  oil,  and  fried  onions,  which 
was  delicious. 

No  sooner  had  we  finished  the  meal  than  a  deputation  came  in 
to  ask  whether  the  room  might  be  used  for  a  dance.  Rosina  made 
no  objection  and  the  room  was  cleared.  A  fat  man  in  velvet  trousers, 
carrying  an  accordion,  came  in  and  began  to  play.  The  company 
were  all  strangers  to  me,  so  I  did  not  remain.  Instead  I  strolled  up 
the  street,  which  was  still  empty.  Sounds  of  talking  and  laughter 
came  from  all  the  houses. 

After  paying  a  visit  to  Giacomina  I  went  on  to  the  inn.  It  was 
crowded.  Teresina  was  bustling  about  with  glasses,  taking  orders. 
Nino  and  his  old  father  were  busy  bringing  bottles  up  from  the  cellar, 
and  carrying  empty  ones  away.  People  came  in,  drank,  and  went 
out,  and  there  was  seldom  a  vacant  chair.  Every  one  asked  for 
beer,  and  when  the  supply  ran  out  they  ordered  lemonade,  until  every 
bottle  was  sold.  Wine  was  the  last  thing  they  desired. 

I  sat  down  close  to  the  door.  Teresina  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room  caught  my  eye,  and  raised  her  eyebrows  as  much  as  to  say 
'lemon  squash?'  I  nodded  in  answer. 

Close  by  three  men  were  playing  murra,  quite  unconcerned  at 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  THE  MADONNA          127 

the  noise  they  made.  They  were  Cristofolo's  two  sons-in-law,  and  a 
third  man  who  was  a  stranger.  I  guessed  him  to  be  the  rich  grocer 
from  Florence,  Dominica's  husband.  He  could  not  speak  the  dialect 
but  played  murra  in  Italian,  and  probably,  out  of  consideration  for 
their  guest,  the  other  two  did  so  as  well.  Instead  of  the  familiar 
'ii,  du,  tre,  quater,  sich,  sei,  set,  ot,  neuf,'  big  Giuseppe,  in  a  chastened 
way,  was  calling  '  uno,  due,  tre,  quattro,  cinque,'  etc.  It  worried  him 
so  much  that  he  lost. 

As  I  was  finishing  my  lemon  squash,  Nino  came  and  spoke  to  me. 

'Signora,  forgive  me,'  he  said,  'I  have  so  little  time  to  talk  to 
you  to-day — you  see  how  busy  I  am.  We  never  expected  such  a 
crush,  so  many  people  have  never  been  to  the  festival  before.  If 
only  I  had  another  hundred  bottles  of  beer.  .  .  .  You  were  at 
mass  ? ' 

'Yes/  I  answered,  'and  I  am  wondering  why  the  priest  hadn't 
troubled  to  shave.' 

'You  are  not  the  only  one  to  say  that,'  said  Nino,  and  then, 
leaning  across  the  table,  he  whispered,  'perhaps  he  was  too  drunk 
to  hold  a  razor  ! ' 

'Nino — don't'  ...  I  protested.  'When  every  one  else  is  so  tidy 
I  was  surprised  to  see  his  face  with  a  six  days'  stubble.  No  doubt 
he  means  to  grow  a  beard.' 

'Oh,  yes — likely,'  he  answered  sarcastically,  going  off  to  serve 
a  customer.  Presently  he  was  back  again. 

'Did  you  hear  what  my  father-in-law  said  to  him?  ...  He  met 
him  in  the  street  and  said :  "I  suppose  you  are  going  to  shave  for 
the  afternoon  service?  "  They  all  listened  for  a  reply,  but  the  priest 
never  answered  him  at  all.' 


i28  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

'  Can  you  tell  me  who  those  two  girls  are,'  I  asked,  'one  in  a  pink 
skirt — the  other  fat,  with  a  cast  in  her  eye?' 

'Ah — Negretti's  two  girls I  could  see  by  his  face  that  he 

did  not  care  for  them.  I  waited  for  further  information.  'They  are 

back  for  a  holiday,'  he  went  on,  'they  work  as  milliners  in  B . 

They  pretend  to  be  ladies/ 

'So  I  see ' 

"They  come  and  put  on  airs — and  hardly  any  one  is  good  enough 
for  them  to  look  at.  They  are  not  a  bit  like  you.' 

'No,'  I  answered,  'they  are  much  more  elegant.' 

'Signora,'  said  Nino,  resting  his  arms  on  the  table,  'you  may  wear 
an  old  dress,  but  you  have  money  in  your  pocket.  It  is  that  which 
counts.  Their  elegance  is  scarcely  skin  deep,  and  their  pockets  don't 
contain  a  palanca.  .  .  .  Those  girls  have  to  starve  themselves  in 
order  to  satify  their  vanity.' 

'One  of  them  looks  quite  fat,'  I  remarked. 

'Perhaps — but  they  lead  a  dog's  life  in  order  to  dress  like  ladies. 
They  think  then  they  are  better  than  we  are.  .  .  .  There  is  nobody 
I  should  like  to  kick  more  !  You,  signora,  you  talk  to  us  all,  it  makes 
no  difference  to  you  whether  we  are  poor  or  not,  you  treat  every  one 
the  same.  But  those  girls,  who  were  born  here,  walk  through  the 
village  not  deigning  even  to  notice  some  of  their  neighbours  ! ' 

The  church  bells  rang  and  I  hurried  back  to  Cominelli's  house. 
The  dancers  were  crowding  down  the  passage  into  the  street.  Rosina 
was  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  the  two  little  girls.  They  were 
to  take  part  in  the  procession.  Both  wore  white  dresses  with  wreaths 
on  their  heads  and  flowing  ribbons. 

The  church  was  even  more  crowded  than  in  the  morning,  many 


THE   FESTIVAL   OF  THE  MADONNA          129 

more  people  having  come  to  the  village  during  the  afternoon.  Several 
pews  were  set  apart  for  the  girls  taking  special  part  in  the  procession. 
They  were  in  white,  and  two  whole  benches  were  filled  with  children 
dressed  up  to  look  'like  angels.' 

The  service,  which  was  conducted  at  the  special  altar  in  the  body 
of  the  church,  was  very  short.  It  was  followed  by  a  sermon.  Our 
priest  sat  listening  to  the  preacher  with  the  most  benign  expression 
on  his  face,  nodding  his  head  from  time  to  time.  It  was  a  pity  he 
hadn't  shaved. 

At  the  close  of  the  service  Ghita  sang  a  solo.  Too  shy  to  stand 
up  by  the  organist  where  she  could  be  seen,  she  crouched  down  behind 
the  barricade.  She  had  a  nice  voice  and  sang  with  such  simple 
devotion  that  it  touched  everybody. 

The  large  doors  at  the  back  of  the  church  were  then  thrown  open 
and  the  sunshine  streamed  in.  The  female  part  of  the  congregation 
stood  up  and  walked  out,  and  formed  into  two  lines  of  single  file 
with  a  space  in  between.  At  intervals  in  this  space  walked  girls  and 
youths  carrying  banners  and  other  emblems. 

Ghita  headed  the  procession,  dressed  in  white  with  a  white  veil 
and  carrying  a  big  bouquet  of  flowers.  Pina  walked  on  one  side  of 
her  and  my  little  girl  on  the  other,  both  clutching  her  skirts. 

The  procession  walked  slowly  across  the  piazza,  and  into  the 
shady  street,  chanting  the  same  dismal  Litany  that  I  had  heard  when 
the  fields  were  blessed.  Girolomo  was  busy  putting  every  one  in 
their  places,  and  he  came  running  past  us  in  order  to  ask  Ghita  not 
to  walk  so  fast.  He  was  very  hot. 

When  all  the  women  had  come  into  line,  the  band  formed  up 
three  abreast,  trumpeting  a  martial  tune  which  more  than  half 


i3o  AMONG   ITALIAN   PEASANTS 

drowned  the  Litany,  and  was  in  quite  a  different  key,  not  even  a 
minor  one.  No  one,  however,  paid  any  attention  to  that. 

After  the  band  came  little  children  hand  in  hand,  carrying  nose- 
gays, and  behind  them,  under  a  large  canopy,  walked  the  three 
priests  in  gorgeous  vestments,  and  the  little  boys  carrying  censers. 

Then  came  the  image  of  the  Madonna.  It  was  carried  on  a 
stretcher  supported  by  four  youths.  Nino  was  right,  the  Madonna 
was  heavy.  She  was  topply  too,  and  had  to  be  supported  on  either 
side  by  a  man,  tall  enough  to  reach  the  brass  rod  of  her  canopy. 

The  rear  of  the  procession  was  brought  up  by  two  single  files 
of  hatless  men. 

We  walked,  chanting,  down  the  street,  past  Giacomina's  house 
and  the  red  and  yellow  bedspread,  past  Toni's  and  Cominelli's,  right 
into  the  sunlight,  where  the  new  road  branched  off  along  the  edge 
of  the  cliff  back  to  the  church.  The  new  road  was  very  wide  and 
under  a  large  green  archway  stood  a  common  table.  We  passed  it 
by,  but  when  the  priests  reached  that  point  they  stopped,  and  the 
image,  swaying  as  the  youths  staggered  along,  was  carefully  placed 
on  the  table.  The  band  stopped  playing. 

The  priests  recited  prayers,  and  we  knelt  where  we  stood,  and 
prayed  and  beseeched  the  Madonna  to  keep  off  the  hail. 

Then  we  rose  to  our  feet  and  walked  slowly  on,  chanting  again. 
The  band  struck  up  another  martial  tune.  Pina,  forgetting  the 
occasion  and  hearing  only  the  band,  tripped  along  with  light  steps, 
still  clutching  Ghita's  skirts.  On  nearing  the  church,  we  could  hear 
the  organ  pealing  forth  yet  another  tune.  It  was  a  strange  medley 
of  sounds. 

We  crowded  in,  and  the  Madonna  was  put  back  on  the  altar. 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  THE  MADONNA          131 

Ghita's  two  youngest  sisters  stood  before  the  image  and  recited. 
Afterwards  every  one  filed  past  the  priest,  and  kissing  the 
Relic  he  held  in  his  hand,  followed  one  another  out  of  the 
church. 

The  band  was  playing  in  the  piazza.  It  was  a  little  cooler.  The 
sun  was  hidden  behind  the  crags,  and  would  not  be  seen  again  to-day. 
The  sky  was  pale  and  clear.  We  strolled  about,  speaking  to  friends 
and  listening  to  the  music.  Several  women  were  hanging  out  of 
upstairs  windows  talking  to  friends  below.  From  the  inn  came  the 
sounds  of  murra. 

Every  one  was  and  looked  happy.  It  had  been  a  successful  day, 
una  bella  festa.  The  villagers  were  flattered  by  the  number  of 
strangers  who  had  come,  the  strangers  were  more  than  satisfied  with 
the  hospitality  and  goodwill  of  the  people  of  Campia.  The  bandsmen 
considered  that  they  had  been  so  well  treated  that  they  even  offered, 
to  come  and  play  at  an  autumn  festival  for  no  remuneration  ! 

The  two  policemen,  who  had  paid  a  formal  visit  to  the  village 
during  the  afternoon,  went  back  to  the  town  whilst  it  was  broad 
daylight.  It  was  not  thought  necessary  that  they  should  remain 
in  the  village  during  the  evening. 

Toni  sought  me  out  in  the  piazza,  he  wanted  to  hear  me  speak 
English  with  a  relation  of  his,  who  had  been  to  America.  It  thrilled 
Toni  to  listen,  understanding  not  a  word.  Perhaps  he  would  have 
been  surprised  if  he  had  understood  what  we  were  so  seriously  dis- 
cussing. After  a  few  preliminary  sentences  we  spoke  as  follows  : — 

'Any  bugs  in  England?'  asked  the  relation. 

'Bugs?  ...  oh,  yes,  of  course,  there  are  bugs  in  England/  I 
answered. 


i32  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

'Also  in  America,'  he  informed  me,  'plenty  bugs  everywhere, 
but  in  Italia,  no.' 

'There  are  no  bugs  here  at  all?'  I  asked. 

'No,  nowhere  in  dese  parts — but  plenty  fleas,'  he  went  on. 

'Yes,'  I  answered,  'and  papatas,'  referring  to  the  little  midges 
which  infested  my  room  at  night. 

Our  conversation,  perhaps  fortunately,  was  broken  off  by 
Giacomina.  She  wanted  me  to  come  to  Cristofolo's  house  and  make 
the  acquaintance  of  his  daughter  Dominica  from  Florence.  We 
started  off,  but  remained  to  loiter,  because  the  band  was  playing  its 
last  tune.  The  bandsmen  came  from  a  village  eight  miles  away, 
they  had  walked  over  in  the  morning,  and  were  walking  all  the  way 
back  now.  They  were  given  a  very  cordial  farewell. 

Some  of  the  visitors  from  more  distant  villages  had  already  left 
— others  were  leaving.  A  good  many  were  spending  the  night  in 
the  village,  and  some  of  the  people  from  the  town  stayed  until  quite 
late,  and  went  home  together  in  a  party.  The  street  was  still  crowded 
and  every  one  was  strolling  there  or  looking  out  of  the  windows 
overlooking  it.  A  few  careful  housewives  were  taking  in  their  bed- 
spreads. 

Giacomina  took  my  arm  and  we  walked  up  the  street  with  a  word 
for  nearly  every  one  we  met.  Rosina  called  out  that  she  was  just 
going  to  get  supper  at  Cominelli's,  would  I  come  in  half  an  hour, 
and  continued  an  animated  discussion  with  Stefen. 

I  was  stopped  by  a  stranger,  who  told  me  that  he  knew  me  quite 
well,  but  was  quite  sure  I'd  never  seen  him.  He  laughed  at  my 
puzzled  expression,  and  then  explained  that  he  was  the  expert  who 
had  helped  Toni  burn  the  lime — he  had  watched  me  put  in  the 


THE   FESTIVAL   OF  THE  MADONNA          133 

faggots.  A  friend  called  him  and  he  passed  on.  We  turned  up  the 
mountain  road  and  the  crowd  thinned.  Outside  Cristofolo's  green 
gate  the  road  was  empty. 

A  large  party  was  assembled  in  Cristofolo's  kitchen,  most  of  them, 
relations.  They  sat  on  chairs  round  the  walls.  In  a  corner  Bigi 
was  playing  the  mandoline  to  Tona's  strummed  accompaniment. 

I  was  introduced  to  Dominica  and  her  husband,  and  to  a  friend 
of  hers  from  London,  an  Italian  lady  whose  husband  kept  a  laundry 
in  Soho. 

I  liked  Dominica.  I  had  expected  her  to  be  a  little  pretentious 
and  overdressed  perhaps,  like  the  two  girls  I  had  seen  in  church, 
but  Dominica  was  not  like  them.  It  is  true  her  clothes  were  costly 
and  fashionable,  but  they  were  in  good  taste  and  she  knew  how  to 
wear  them.  She  was  not  beautiful,  nor  a  bit  like  Bigi  or  her  sisters, 
but  very  tall,  pale,  and  reserved.  The  thing  which  most  struck  me 
about  her,  was  the  admiration  her  husband  showered  upon  her.  He 
was  sitting  by  her  now,  holding  her  hand,  and  looking  unutterably 
docile.  It  was  evident  that  she  lived  in  the  sunshine  of  his  unconcealed 
admiration,  and  to  keep  it  from  becoming  embarrassing  she  was  a 
little  haughty  with  him — just  to  keep  him  in  his  place. 

There  was  another  stranger  in  the  room,  Teschini,  a  friend  of 
Dominica's  husband,  who  also  kept  a  store  in  Florence. 

I  sat  down  by  the  lady  from  Soho.  She  was  very  beautiful,  wore 
big  pearl  ear-rings  and  a  scarlet  overall  over  her  dress.  I  spoke  English 
to  her  and  Dominica,  and  we  made  pleasant  remarks,  and  drank 
vermouth. 

'Ah,'  sighed  the  lady  from  Soho,  thankful  to  be  amongst  her 

own  countrymen  again,  'Italians  are  jolly — arn't  dey?    Never  dull.' 
I.P.  K 


134  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

'No/  I  answered,  thinking  of  the  hail,  'nothing  seems  to  damp 
their  spirits.' 

Then  turning  to  Dominica  she  said  loudly,  '  De  signora  is  a  person 
of  education — a  lady — I  can  'ear  dat  by  de  way  she  talk  English.' 

Bigi  struck  up  a  tune,  the  table  was  put  on  one  side  and  we  had 
a  few  dances.  Then  thinking  of  Rosina's  soup,  and  that  Annetta 
might  be  waiting  for  me  to  go  before  she  began  her  preparations  for 
supper,  I  took  my  leave  and  found  Rosina  looking  up  the  road  for 
me.  She  had  already  ladled  the  soup  into  plates  which  stood  steaming 
on  the  table.  Bortolo  had  gone  home  to  milk  the  cow,  the  boys  were 
somewhere  in  the  village,  she  said — she  didn't  know  where. 

'  I  suppose,'  said  Rosina,  blowing  her  soup,  '  that  you  have  heard 
that  there  will  be  dancing  to-night — in  the  house  opposite.' 

'  But  isn't  it  empty  ? '  I  asked,  half  expecting  to  hear  that  it  was 
inhabited.  Several  desolate  looking  houses  in  the  village,  which  I 
had  taken  to  be  empty  turned  out,  on  investigation,  to  be  occupied. 
I  could  never  tell  from  the  outside. 

'Yes — it  is  empty,'  she  said,  trying  to  sip  the  hot  soup  from  her 
spoon,  which  she  held  with  an  elbow  on  the  table.  'It  belongs  to 
Gheco,  but  he  prefers  to  live  in  the  house  down  by  his  lands.' 

'The  accordion  won't  play,  I  hope,'  I  remarked. 

'No,  signora,  it  will  be  our  own  players.  .  .  .  Here,'  she  went 
on,  stretching  out  the  bottle — 'have  some  wine.'  ...  I  held  out 
my  glass  which  she  filled.  'Why  don't  the  boys  come  to  supper? 
It  is  strange  that  they  never  can  do  as  they  are  told.  .  .  / 

'You  would  find  life  very  dull,'  I  answered,  'if  Riccardo  was  a 
good  and  obedient  boy/ 

Rosina  laughed. 


THE  FESTIVAL  OF  THE  MADONNA          135 

'Ecco/  she  went  on  presently,  'I  hear  the  mandoline.  .  .  . 
Signora — you  will  burn  yourself  if  you  eat  so  quickly  ! ' 

It  was  not  long  before  I  ran  up  the  outside  stairway,  and  stood 
in  the  kitchen  of  Gheco's  house.  The  players  were  sitting  in  a  corner, 
but  not  many  dancers  had  come  yet.  La  Macuccia  sat  on  a  chair 
fanning  herself,  and  I  sat  down  beside  her.  She  was  full  of  a  letter 
received  from  her  youngest  son,  who  had  been  three  months  in 
America.  'He  is  doing  well/  she  told  me  proudly,  'he  has  sent  money 
this  time,  four  hundred  francs — there  is  money  in  America — have 
you  seen  my  other  son,  the  policeman? — he  is  home  for  a  few  days 
on  leave.' 

I  had  not  met  her  son. 

'No  doubt  yoii  have  seen  him/  she  said,  continually  fanning 
herself  and  me  by  turns,  'he  wears  a  white  suit/ 

I  knew  whom  she  meant,  and  it  was  not  long  before  I  danced 
with  him.  Introductions  are  not  necessary  at  Campia,  you  dance 
with  whomever  asks  you  to,  but  of  course  you  can  always 
refuse. 

Apollonia  scandalised  some  people  by  dancing.  They  said  it 
was  much  too  soon  after  her  father's  death,  but  she  had  her  own 
opinion  on  the  subject.  She  wanted  to  learn,  and  Gheco  had  been 
teaching  her  the  steps.  .  .  . 

Sometimes  when  we  were  too  hot  and  out  of  breath,  some  one 
would  stand  up  and  sing,  and  those  not  too  exhausted  would  join  in 
the  chorus.  Of  course  'Tripoli'  was  sung — twice  over.  At  other 
times  we  sat  out  on  the  balustrade  or  the  stairs,  where  it  was  a  little 
cooler  than  indoors.  It  was  a  calm  evening,  the  sky  was  cloudless 
and  the  stars  shone  bright.  The  moon  was  just  rising. 


i36  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

Some  of  the  younger  men  had  been  pulling  down  the  triumphal 
arches  and  carrying  them  away  to  the  new  road.  Here  they  had  made 
a  glorious  bonfire,  and  all  the  village  children  had  thoroughly  enjoyed 
themselves. 

Most  people  were  indoors  now.  The  two  inns  were  crowded,  and 
I  could  hear  the  sounds  of  murra  from  more  than  one  house,  other- 
wise the  streets  were  very  quiet.  The  young  men  came  back  from  the 
bonfire  and  sat  down  by  the  fountain  to  sing.  They  sang  in  parts 
and  it  was  a  pleasure  to  listen.  As  each  song  was  finished,  clapping 
was  heard,  and  from  dark  doorways  unseen  listeners  cried  'bravi.' 
Now  and  then  some  one  came  clattering  down  the  mountain  road 
and  passed  down  the  street  into  the  shadows.  The  moon  rose  higher 
and  began  to  shine  on  one  side  of  the  street. 

Punctually  at  ten  o'clock  the  inns  closed,  and  the  men  came  out 
and  dispersed.  This  was  Rosina's  golden  hour.  Some  of  the  thirstier 
souls  found  their  way  into  Cominelli's  kitchen,  and  Rosina  fetched 
out  her  wine  bottles.  Gioan  was  amongst  the  number,  and  was  as 
voluble  as  wine  could  make  such  a  reticent  man.  Bertoldi  was  drunk 
and  broke  a  glass.  Wine  did  not  make  him  the  less  good-natured, 
he  was  perfectly  aware  of  the  condition  he  was  in,  and  deplored  it. 
He  was  so  drunk  he  couldn't  walk  home,  and  slept  all  night  on  some- 
body's doorstep.  Rosina — who  had  been  selling  him  wine — said  it 
was  disgraceful. 

It  was  very  Jate  when  we  stopped  dancing.  As  usual  it  was  the 
players  who  first  left  the  room.  They  walked  down  the  steps  and 
played  a  farewell  tune  down  in  the  road. 

The  village  was  hushed,  the  murra  players  had  gone  to  bed,  and 
the  full  moon,  high  in  the  heavens,  shed  its  clear  light  into  the  narrow 


THE   FESTIVAL  OF  THE  MADONNA          137 

street.  The  white  houses  stood  luminous  among  mysterious  dark 
shadows. 

The  players  walked  up  the  street,  but  at  the  fountain  they  stopped, 
and  standing  in  the  magic  light  in  the  middle  of  the  crossing,  they 
began  to  play  again  .  .  .  one  tune  after  the  other. 

We  stood  listening  by  the  wall.  No  one  spoke  a  word.  It  was 
indescribably  beautiful,  the  string  instruments,  the  moon  and  the 
phantom  musicians  whose  black  clothes  were  indistinguishable  against 
the  shadows  behind. 

They  stood  playing  for  a  long  time. 

At  last  Giacomi  stopped  and  said,  'It  is  enough.' 

'Bravi,  bravi/  we  called;  'bravi,  bravi,'  came  from  the  dark 
shadows  round  about,  which  suddenly  became  alive  with  people. 

'Good-night/  we  called  out  to  each  other,  although  it  was  too 
dark  to  distinguish  any  one.  'Good-night/  they  called  back,  'good- 
night,' and  we  went  home. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  MOUNTAIN 

IT  was  Rosina's  idea  that  I  should  stay  in  one  of  the  mountain  huts. 
The  sun  was  getting  very  hot  and  up  on  the  mountain  it  would  be 
cool  and  fresh,  even  in  August.  Many  of  the  peasants  had  huts  up 
there  which  were  used  in  haytime,  and  I  hoped  to  stay  in  one  of 
these. 

At  first  Rosina  suggested  the  hut  rented  by  Bortolo,  but  it  had 
only  one  room  and  he  would  be  wanting  to  use  it.  Most  of  the  huts 
had  only  one  room.  There  was,  however,  one  said  to  contain  four 
rooms,  which  belonged  to  Di  Marchesi  Filip,  who  drove  the  oxen 
wagon.  So  I  went  to  ask  Filip  if  he  would  agree  to  my  staying  there. 

I  found  him  stretched  at  full  length  on  a  wagon  in  the  shed, 
asleep.  The  shed  opened  on  to  the  street,  nearly  opposite  to  the  tunnel 
leading  to  Nino's  house.  Filip's  front  door  was  always  locked,  so 
that  to  get  into  the  house  one  had  to  pass  through  the  dark  shed  to 
a  gallery,  which  ran  round  two  sides  of  a  courtyard  reeking  of  manure. 
The  kitchen  door  and  window  opened  on  to  the  gallery,  and  a  door 
at  the  corner  led  into  the  big  house  where  the  bedrooms  were.  Filip 
and  Gioan  each  occupied  a  separate  bedroom,  whilst  Marget  and  her 
daughter  shared  a  third.  The  rooms  in  use  were  large  and  airy,  with 
windows  opening  on  to  the  piazza,  but  the  rest  of  the  house  was  in 

a  tumbledown  condition.    Filip  never  mended  anything.    His  married 

138 


THE  MOUNTAIN  139 

sons,  however,  had  more  energy.  At  Christmas,  Stefen  had  put  new 
panes  in  the  broken  windows  to  please  his  mother,  and  at  Easter, 
Giacom  had  whitewashed  the  big  fireplace.  Gioan,  who  was  still 
unmarried,  was  like  his  father,  and  dozed  when  not  at  his  regular 
work. 

I  looked  into  the  kitchen,  but  finding  no  one  at  home,  I  returned 
to  the  shed,  where  Filip  was  watching  me  with  wide-open  eyes. 

I  told  him  of  my  plan,  but  Filip,  a  man  of  few  words,  would  not 
say  much.  He  was,  however,  immensely  tickled  at  the  idea,  which 
he  thought  crazy.  Not  that  he  said  so.  What  he  said  was  that  he'd 
think  about  it,  and  that  he'd  talk  it  over  with  his  sons,  and  his  sleepy 
eyes  twinkled.  Having  uttered  that  much,  he  settled  down  for 
another  forty  winks,  and  I  went  out  into  the  sunny  street. 

By  the  door  I  met  Nino,  his  hat  covered  with  the  sulphur  he  had 
been  dusting  on  the  vines. 

'Filip  says  he  is  going  to  talk  it  over  with  his  sons/  I  informed 
him,  not  feeling  very  hopeful  of  the  result. 

'That  will  be  all  right/  Nino  seemed  to  think.  'I  will  talk  to 
Giacom  myself — he's  my  wife's  brother-in-law,  and  Gioan  is  a  man 
with  a  kind  heart.  And  I  hardly  think  Stefen  will  mind/  he  went 
on  reassuringly.  Then  pulling  a  post  card  from  his  trouser  pocket 
he  said  :  'From  Gaetano.  Raimondo  has  arrived.  He  had  a  stormy 
passage — just  think,  instead  of  fifteen  days  he  was  twenty-three 
days  on  the  water  !  Gaetano,  who  thought  he  could  not  have  sailed 
by  that  boat,  had  given  up  all  hope  of  seeing  him.  Then  quite 
unexpectedly  Raimondo  walked  into  the  room.  They  were  so 
delighted  to  have  him  back  again  that  they  could  not  leave  off  hugging 
him  for  joy.' 


1 40  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

'Then  I  suppose  Angelina  has  a  letter?' 

'She  has  not,  signora,  and  she  is  very  angry.  But  it  won't  hurt 
her  to  suffer  a  little — she  ill-used  Raimondo — now  it  is  her  turn.' 
He  was  very  stern,  then  sof tening  a  little,  he  added  :  '  I  told  her 
that  post  cards  always  come  quicker  than  letters,  and  no  doubt  she 
will  hear  to-morrow  or  the  next  day.  .  .  .  What  upset  her  was 
to  hear  that  Bigi  had  received  a  post  card  to-day  from  Raimondo 
himself.' 

On  my  way  home  I  met  Angelina  coming  up  from  town.  Doubt- 
less she  had  been  to  the  post. 

'Any  news  of  Raimondo?'  I  asked. 

'No,  signora,  he  has  sent  a  card  to  Bigi  .  .  .  and  Nino  has  heard 
from  Gaetano  that  he  has  arrived  .  .  .  but  for  me  there  is  nothing. 
If  I  do  not  get  a  letter,'  she  went  on  in  great  agitation,  'if  I  do  not 
get  a  letter  by  first  post  to-morrow,  then  I  will  never  speak  to 
Raimondo  again  .  .  .  never  .  .  .  after  all  his  promises  .  .  .  !' 

She  was  beyond  reason,  so  I  left  her  to  her  sorrows,  and  sorrow 
she  did  for  next  day  brought  no  letter.  She  spent  the  time  alter- 
nately sobbing  and  raging,  I  don't  know  which  was  the  most  trying. 
However,  to  the  relief  of  everybody,  except  her  mother,  who  had  been 
saying,  'I  told  you  so,'  Raimondo's  letter  came  the  following  day, 
and  Angelina  so  far  recovered  as  to  answer  it  by  return  of  post. 

I  waited  patiently  for  Filip  to  make  up  his  mind  about  the  hut, 
but  he  didn't.  He  was  not  a  man  to  be  hurried,  nor  was  he  open  to 
argument  or  persuasion.  I  knew  that.  With  Filip  one  had  to  wait, 
so  I  waited.  When  I  could  wait  no  longer  I  tried  to  bring  him  to 
a  decision  by  an  indirect  attack.  To  the  person  I  thought  most 
likely  to  repeat  it  to  him — it  was  Giacomina — I  said  :  '  Filip  does  not 


THE  MOUNTAIN  141 

want  me  to  come;  no  doubt  he  thinks  that  if  I  don't  want  to  be  baked 
in  the  sun,  I  had  better  go  back  to  England,  where  I  belong,  and  not 
bother  people  round  about  here.' 

It  reached  Filip's  ears  and  had  the  desired  effect.  He  made  up 
his  mind.  The  news  spread  through  the  village,  and  was  shouted  to 
me  by  every  friend  in  sight  as  I  came  down  the  street. 

I  found  Filip  stretched  on  the  maize  meal  chest  in  the  kitchen, 
dozing,  and  his  wife  Marget  on  the  hearth-stone  vigorously  knitting. 
Filip  was  a  splendid  majestic  old  man  over  six  feet  high,  with  white 
hair  and  dark  tanned  skin.  His  movements  were  leisurely  and  digni- 
fied. He  raised  himself  on  one  elbow  as  I  came  in  and  pulled  his 
felt  hat  down  over  his  eyes. 

He  and  his  sons,  he  said,  would  have  no  objection  to  my  being 
in  the  hut — I  could  have  the  little  bedroom  and  share  the  kitchen, 
and  he  would  provide  the  firewood.  But  ...  he  was  quite  sure  I 
wouldn't  like  it,  it  was  a  rough  mountain  hut  ...  it  was  brutta. 

'And  what  about  the  price?' 

'Ah.'  Filip  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  subsided  on  the  chest. 
Marget  knitted  quickly  and  her  mouth  was  firm.  She  was  a  wiry 
little  old  woman,  with  bright  brown  eyes. 

At  last,  when  the  silence  became  oppressive,  she  said:  "The 
signora  can  give  what  she  considers  adequate.' 

'You'd  better  see  first  how  you  like  it,'  said  Filip  wisely,  certain 
that  I  wouldn't. 

Then  we  talked  of  the  weather. 

....••• 

A  few  days  later  I  explored  the  mountain  with  Nino  as  guide. 
He  had  offered  to  show  me  all  over  it  as  a  sort  of  return  for  the 


142  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

money  I  had  given  him.  I  was  very  glad  of  a  guide,  and  particularly 
of  his  company,  for  he  had  something  interesting  to  tell  of  every- 
thing. For  a  man  who  had  had  little  education  and  rarely  attempted 
to  read  a  newspaper,  he  was  singularly  well  informed.  He  always 
had  an  answer  to  my  questions,  and  it  was  seldom  he  would  hold  up 
his  hands  in  dismay,  saying  :  '  But  the  signora  always  asks  "  why  !  "  ' 

It  was  noticeable  that  the  villagers  were  very  careful  of  what 
they  said  of  their  neighbours,  and  Nino  was  no  exception  to  this 
rule.  It  is  true  that  Rosina  would  gossip,  but  she  never  mentioned 
the  more  serious  scandals.  If  I  asked  Nino  to  clear  up  one  of  these 
mysteries,  he  would  look  away  and  say  he  'didn't  know.'  Of  course 
he  knew.  I  rather  admired  this  reticence  on  his  part,  for  he  was  a 
very  talkative  man.  I  do  not  think  I  would  have  found  out  much  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  Marget.  She  told  me  about  everything.  On  dark 
evenings  when  we  were  alone  together  in  the  mountain  hut,  Marget 
would  divulge  these  secrets.  With  evident  enjoyment  she  related  all 
the  scandals  of  the  last  sixty  years,  until  I  thought  Campia  the  most 
wicked  place,  but  the  most  adorable. 

It  may  not  have  been  a  coincidence  that  neither  Rosina  nor 
Marget  were  born  and  bred  in  Campia.  Marget  was  from  the  Trentino, 
Rosina  from  a  distant  townlet  where  tourists  stay.  Perhaps  in  those 
places  tongues  were  looser. 

On  every  other  topic  than  his  neighbours  Nino  was  very  talkative. 
Altogether  we  were  nine  hours  on  the  mountain,  and  conversation 
never  flagged  nor  fell  flat.  He  told  me  a  great  deal  about  the  trees 
and  their  various  uses  and  names,  and  pointed  out  those  he  had  seen 
growing  in  California,  and  those  which  he  had  only  seen  from  the 
train  when  crossing  the  American  continent.  He  also  attempted  to 


THE  MOUNTAIN  143 

describe  some  of  the  strange  plants  he  had  seen  abroad,  hoping  that 
I  might  be  able  to  tell  him  about  them.  As  regards  insects  in  general, 
he  was  less  well  informed,  but  he  knew  a  great  deal  about  birds,  for 
he  was  a  passionate  sportsman.  He  was  a  very  good  shot,  and 
spent  hours  on  the  mountain  with  his  gun.  Except  for  tame  rabbits, 
birds  were  the  only  other  kind  of  meat  he  could  obtain,  and  if  I 
regretted  to  see  the  little  birds  killed,  I  did  not  grudge  Nino  their 
flesh.  Meat  gives  you  strength,  the  peasants  said;  they  had  learnt 
that  from  experience,  during  a  succession  of  lean  years,  always  hoping 
to  be  rich  enough  to  satisfy  this  craving.  Meanwhile  the  little  birds 
were  killed,  becoming  more  and  more  scarce.  What  the  poor  will 
live  on  when  they  are  exterminated  I  do  not  know.  But  one  thing 
is  sure,  insects,  fly  pests,  grubs,  and  caterpillars  will  ravage  the  crops 
unchecked. 

Campia  was  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  mountain,  and  our  long 
climb  brought  us  to  the  summit  of  the  northern  slopes.  A  few 
villages  lay  scattered  in  the  wide  valley  between  us  and  the  range 
of  hills  beyond.  Nino  knew  the  villages  by  name.  He  also  pointed 
out  the  snow-capped  peak  beyond  the  mountain  chains,  and  the  little 
white  house  which  marked  the  frontier. 

Near  the  lake  on  an  almost  inaccessible  ridge,  a  church  had  been 
built  with  a  road  tediously  zigzagging  up  to  it. 

'Why  ever  was  it  built  there,'  I  asked,  'so  far  away  from  the 
village  ? ' 

'They  began  to  build  it  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,'  Nino  answered 
me,  '  but  a  strange  thing  happened.  One  morning  when  the  workmen 
came  they  were  unable  to  find  their  tools.  They  looked  for  them 
everywhere.' 


144  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

'And  were  they  found?' 

'  Yes,'  he  answered,  '  on  the  top  of  the  hill.  They  carried  the  tools 
down  and  went  on  with  the  work.  .  .  .  But  next  morning  the  same 
thing  happened,  and  the  day  after  again.  At  last  they  understood 
that  it  was  a  sign  from  the  Madonna,  that  she  wished  the  church  to 
be  built  on  the  top  of  the  ridge.  ...  So  that  is  why  it  was 
done.'  Then,  glancing  quickly  at  me,  he  added,  'You  don't 
believe  it.' 

'And  you?'  I  asked. 

'I  suppose  so,'  he  answered,  and  walked  on.  After  a  bit  he 
stopped.  '  You  see,'  he  said,  half  turning,  '  all  these  things  happened 
so  long  ago.  We  must  either  believe  what  we  are  told — or  else  believe 
nothing.  .  .  .' 

We  walked  on,  and  taking  a  path  leading  into  a  valley  of  the 
mountain,  left  the  view  behind  us.  We  passed  two  little  huts  shut 
up  and  locked,  and  a  pink  villa  higher  on  the  slope  which  belonged 
to  the  signer's  mother-in-law.  We  crossed  the  valley,  ascending  the 
opposite  side,  which  was  higher  and  steeper.  Far  up  it  was  another 
white  stucco  hut. 

'Cornighe,'  said  Nino,  pointing  to  it.  Seeing  that  I  was  not 
sufficiently  interested,  he  added,  'That  is  Filip's  hut,  it  is  called 
Cornighe.' 

We  clambered  up  with  renewed  energy.  The  hut  glowed  in  the 
sunshine,  with  dark  bushes  on  the  rising  ground  behind  it.  It  was 
quite  a  big  cottage,  and  in  such  a  splendid  situation. 

We  walked  round  to  the  door.    It  was  locked. 

Nino  shouted  for  Marget,  but  no  Marget  answered.  It  had  been 
arranged  that  she  should  be  there  to  show  me  over  the  hut.  We 


THE   MOUNTAIN  145 

listened  in  vain  for  the  tinkle  of  goat  bells.  Nino  shouted  again, 
and  walking  down  a  path,  shouted,  a  little  way  off,  but  no  Marget 
answered.  We  concluded  that  she  must  have  gone  off  to  find  her 
sheep,  which  might  be  anywhere  on  the  mountain. 

So  we  hunted  for  the  key  amongst  the  stones  by  the  door,  and 
were  rewarded  by  finding  it.  Feeling  very  bold,  we  opened  the  door 
and  went  in. 

We  came  into  a  dear  little  kitchen,  neat  and  tidy.  It  was  simply 
furnished  and  lacked  nothing  that  peasants  would  need.  There  was  a 
table  and  some  stools,  a  copper  cauldron,  a  frying  pan,  and  a  board 
for  polenta.  On  the  wall  hung  a  large  wooden  spoon  and  a  strainer, 
and  from  the  rafters  of  the  ceiling  hung  several  hoops  of  wood,  on 
which  small  sacks  of  flour  could  be  put  out  of  reach  of  mice,  A 
wooden  tray  for  cream  cheeses  was  suspended  near  the  window.  The 
floor  was  paved  with  uneven  flagstones  and,  of  course,  there  was  a 
glorious  big  fireplace  with  a  raised  hearthstone. 

The  adjoining  room  was  used  as  larder  and  a  storeroom  for  wooden 
rakes.  By  the  doorway,  on  a  board  placed  on  the  earth,  stood  the 
two  copper  water  pails. 

Upstairs  were  also  two  rooms.  A  large  one  over  the  kitchen,  a 
smaller  over  the  larder.  The  smaller  room  was  divided  from  the 
stairway  by  a  rough  plank  partition  which  gaped  at  the  seams.  Neither 
of  the  bedrooms  possessed  a  door.  The  windows  were  closed  with 
wooden  shutters,  there  being  neither  window  frames  nor  glass  upstairs. 
Roughly  made  bedsteads  with  hard,  haystuffed  mattresses,  were  the 
only  furniture. 

It  was  not  at  all  as  brutta  as  Filip  had  made  out.  It  was  primitive 
and  perhaps  not  up  to  hotel  standard,  but  it  was  clean.  I  knew  I 


i46  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

would  be  very  happy  there;  in  fact,  I  knew  I  should  be  very  unhappy 
if  I  did  not  stay  there. 

The  view  was  lovely  and  it  was  quiet  and  peaceful. 

Nino  followed  me  from  room  to  room,  but  hardly  spoke.  I  think 
he  was  uneasily  turning  over  in  his  mind  what  Marget  would  say 
should  she  come  and  find  us  inside  the  hut.  Marget  was  not  fond 
of  Nino. 

We  went  downstairs  and  out  into  the  sunlight.  Nino  gave  a 
sigh  of  relief  as  he  stepped  outside  and  turned  the  key,  casting  a  wary 
eye  round.  Then  we  sat  down  by  the  door  and  ate  our  lunch. 

In  front,  sloping  gently  down,  was  a  grassy  ridge  with  a  deep 
valley  on  either  side.  At  the  far  end  of  the  ridge  about  a  mile  away, 
stood  the  signer's  large  house,  with  Monte  Moro  beyond  in  the  back- 
ground. The  signer  spent  a  few  weeks  in  his  house  every  summer. 
His  wife  owned  a  great  deal  of  land  on  the  mountain,  which  was 
rented  by  the  two  cattle  farms. 

In  the  valley  on  the  left  was  La  Pallina,  the  hut  Nino  would 
occupy  when  he  came  to  help  Faustino  cut  the  signer's  hay.  On  the 
other  side  were  the  crags,  which  from  below  looked  like  the  top  of 
the  mountain.  But  there  was  a  great  hollow  between  them  and  the 
summit. 

Having  finished  eating,  Nino  picked  up  his  basket  and  stood 
up.  Then  he  called  'Marget/ 

'It  is  no  good/  he  said,  after  a  while,  'she  may  not  be  back  until 
sundown.  Perhaps  if  we  go  on  we  shall  find  her  on  the  mountain/ 

I  followed  him  along  a  little  path  which  curved  and  brought  us 
to  an  old  hut  close  by.  The  Di  Marchesi's  used  it  as  a  barn,  but 
before  Cornighe  had  been  built,  it  had  been  their  mountain  hut. 


THE  MOUNTAIN  147 

At  the  side  of  it  the  precious  rain-water  tank  had  been  built.  Water 
was  very  scarce  on  the  mountain. 

We  left  the  path  and  zigzagged  up  the  slope,  until  we  reached  an 
artificial  rain-water  pond  where  the  cattle  drank.  Along  the  edges 
of  the  pond,  in  the  shallow  water  warmed  by  the  sun,  were  thousands 
of  tadpoles.  With  great  commotion  they  wriggled  out  into  the 
depths  as  we  approached. 

Nino  had  never  heard  that  tadpoles  grow  into  frogs.  He  was 
astonished  when  I  insisted  it  was  a  fact.  We  caught  a  lot  of  tadpoles 
for  him  to  look  at  and  compare. 

'It  is  quite  true,'  I  said,  looking  at  his  doubtful  face. 

'I  believe  it,  because  it  is  you  that  tell  me  so,'  he  said  politely, 
'but  I've  never  heard  of  it  before.  I've  passed  this  pond  hundreds 
of  times  at  all  seasons  of  the  year,  but  I've  never  seen  it  when  it 
wasn't  full  of  tadpoles.  I  thought  they  were  always  there.' 

We  took  the  cattle  track  up  the  cleft  between  small  bushes  and 
blocks  of  gray  stone  and  came  out  on  the  wide  grassy  slopes  broken 
and  traversed  by  endless  cattle  tracks.  We  were  now  at  the  back  of 
the  mountain,  so  to  say,  that  is,  on  the  western  side.  The  wide 
valley  which  we  had  seen  from  the  northern  slopes  continued  right 
round  the  mountain,  which  stood  free  and  independent.  We  were 
higher  than  the  nearer  mountains,  and  could  see  for  miles  across 
ragged  mountain  chains.  There  was  a  wonderful  feeling  of  space. 

I  stood  enjoying  the  view  and  the  wind,  whilst  Nino  gazed  at  the 
grassy  slopes  and  swore  under  his  breath. 

'It  gets  worse  every  year,'  he  said  sadly.  'Ostia.  When  the 
cattle  tread  on  the  steep  slopes  their  hoofs  tear  the  turf  and  spoil 
the  surface,  and  the  rain  washes  the  earth  away,  and  in  the  end  the 


148  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

mountain  will  be  nothing  but  a  desert  of  sand  and  stone.  Soon  no 
grass  will  grow  here  at  all.'  He  kicked  a  stone  savagely  along.  'Do 
you  see  those  terraces  over  there?  People  used  to  grow  wheat  there 
— now  cattle  graze  there,  ostia,  and  look  at  the  way  they  spoil  it.' 

It  was  only  too  evident.  The  whole  surface  was  cut  up  and 
seamed,  and  loose  stones  had  rolled  from  bare  places  above  down  on 
to  the  grass.  The  cowmen  had  been  collecting  some  of  them  into 
heaps. 

The  cattle  farm  was  a  large  stone  building,  standing  on  the  grass 
without  as  much  as  a  tree  to  shelter  it.  The  cows  were  on  the 
slopes  above  us  out  of  sight,  but  we  could  hear  the  bells  tinkling. 
A  number  of  black  pigs  roamed  near  the  farm,  and  two  wild-looking 
dogs  barked  furiously,  much  to  Nino's  discomfort.  He  had  had  un- 
pleasant experiences  of  dogs.  We  braved  them,  however,  and  picked 
our  way  through  indescribable  mire  to  the  stairway,  where  an  old 
man  had  come  out  to  see  what  the  dogs  were  excited  about.  We 
mounted  the  stairs  and  came  into  the  kitchen,  where  the  old  man 
gave  us  as  much  milk  as  we  could  drink,  and  only  one  glass  to  drink 
it  out  of.  Nino,  therefore,  would  not  touch  a  drop  until  he  was  quite 
satisfied  that  I  had  done  with  the  glass  for  good.  He  gave  the  old 
man  all  the  cherries  he  had  brought  up  in  his  basket,  and  in  return 
was  given  a  couple  of  odd  looking  cheeses,  called  poina,  which  were 
hanging  up  in  cloths  by  the  fireplace,  blackened  with  smoke. 

Out  of  the  kitchen,  where  the  men  slept  in  bunks,  opened  the 
dairy,  and  beyond  it  a  room  full  of  cheeses.  It  was  an  airy  place, 
slits  having  been  left  in  the  stonework  so  that  the  wind  could  blow 
right  through. 

Nino  had  a  lot  to  say  to  the  cowman,  and  was  very  reluctant  to 


THE   MOUNTAIN  149 

leave,  none  the  less  he  had  to  tear  himself  away,  for  we  still  had 
far  to  go.  I  think  he  had  taken  me  the  longest  way  round  he  could 
think  of,  in  order  to  see  if  I  were  a  good  walker  or  not. 

Bidding  farewell  to  the  old  cowman  we  walked  on  and  on  across 
the  grass,  past  places  where  wild  peonies  grew,  right  up  to  the  beech- 
trees.  The  trees  were  large,  with  thick  dark  foliage.  Among  the 
roots  were  pale  gray  rocks  and  loose  stones.  We  walked  carefully 
in  the  cool  shade.  Nino  had  said  something  about  adders. 

This  was  the  real  summit,  but  there  was  no  view  amongst  the 
trees.  We  came  to  a  rocky  slope  and  began  to  scramble  down  amongst 
thick  bushes  and  prickly  wild  rose  plants. 

Nino  hesitated,  he  had  missed  the  path,  and  was  wondering  how 
I  would  take  such  negligence  on  his  part.  Remembering  suddenly 
that  I  was  of  the  upper  class,  and  at  liberty  to  abuse  him,  he  half 
expected  me  to  make  use  of  my  privilege.  With  the  expression  of  a 
child  expecting  to  be  punished  he  looked  round  at  me,  and  confessed 
with  humble  dignity  that  he  had  lost  the  path. 

It  was  on  an  occasion  like  this  that  a  look  or  a  tone  of  voice 
would  reveal  more  of  the  relations  between  signori  and  peasant  than 
volumes  of  words. 

Nino  expected  me  to  be  angry.  But  why  should  I  be?  Weren't 
we  friends?  A  few  minutes'  walk  the  way  we  had  come  would  take 
us  back  to  the  path  we  had  strayed  from — and  at  the  bottom  of  the 
slope  where  we  stood  we  could  see  another  path  which  led  to  the 
very  place  we  were  aiming  for.  It  would  not  be  far  to  scramble 
down.  .  .  . 

Nino,  waited,  gazing  at  the  view. 

'Let's  be  getting  on,'  I  suggested. 
I.P.  t 


i5o  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

'You  arn't  angry  ?'  he  asked  in  surprise,  turning  to  look  search- 
ingly  at  me. 

'Why  should  I  be?'  I  answered.  'I  rather  enjoy  scrambling 
about.' 

'Ostia,'  he  remarked,  forgetting  that  a  lady  should  not  be  hearing 
such  a  word.  'Then  you  don't  mind?' 

'No.'    I  shook  my  head. 

He  led  the  way,  and  I  followed  as  best  I  could  over  stones  and 
through  bushes.  Once  we  got  into  such  a  tangle  of  undergrowth 
that  we  were  forced  to  retrace  our  steps.  At  last  we  reached  the 
path  below,  which  took  us  up  round  the  hollow  right  up  to  the  crags. 

Here  was  the  view.  A  few  smaller  heights,  a  sheet  of  water,  and 
the  Lombardy  Plains  beyond,  merging  into  the  hazy  sky  so  that  it 
was  impossible  to  distinguish  where  the  one  began  and  the  other 
left  off.  We  could  see  Campia  and  San  Lorenzo  and  the  town  and 
the  lake  5000  feet  below  us.  Scattered  on  the  hills  behind  the  town 
were  a  few  farm-houses,  of  which  we  could  only  see  the  tiled  roofs. 

Then  we  found  a  bit  of  shade  and  rested  and  ate  dinner.  Nino 
recounted  some  of  his  adventures  in  California,  and  told  me  how 
hard  it  was  that  his  countrymen  have  such  a  bad  reputation. 

'It  is  the  fault  of  the  people  in  Lower  Italy,'  he  said,  lying  at 
full  length  on  the  grass  and  gazing  up  into  the  sky.  "They  are 
thieves,  and  stick  knives  into  each  other — we  are  quite  different 
up  here  in  the  north,  but  no  one  will  believe  we  are  honest  in 
America.  No  farmer  will  let  us  sleep  a  night  in  his  barn,  even  when 
we  offer  to  pay.  The  word  'Italians'  is  enough  for  him.  So  if  we 
have  to  tramp  we  nearly  starve,  and  suffer  terribly  if  it  is  cold. 
Sometimes,  however,  even  a  bad  reputation  is  an  advantage.  You 


THE  MOUNTAIN  151 

know  I  was  in  California  with  Bortolo — well,  some  of  the  men  there 
were  making  fun  of  him,  he  is  far  too  good-natured,  and  I  was 
standing  near  by  with  a  pick  in  my  hand.  It  was  shameful  the  way 
they  went  on  with  Bortolo.  I  got  angry,  and  looking  at  them  like 
this — with  the  pick  in  my  hand — I  swore  at  them  in  Italian.  .  .  . 
Those  three  big  men  were  so  frightened  they  took  to  their  heels  and 
fled.  I  was  surprised.  They  must  have  thought  I  was  about  to  murder 
the  lot  of  them  !  The  Italians  of  Lower  Italy  are  very  hot-blooded,' 
he  explained,  'they  get  half  mad  and  do  that  sort  of  thing.  Nobody 
seems  to  know  that  there  are  decent  people  in  Italy,  ostia.  But  it 
was  rather  funny.  That  same  evening  I  was  the  most  popular  man 
in  the  place.  The  three  Americans  I  had  so  frightened  took  me  to 
the  saloon  and  stood  me  as  many  drinks  as  I  wanted.  And  every  one 
else  was  so  kind,  they  didn't  know  how  to  be  friendly  enough.  All 
because  they  thought  I  was  a  terribly  dangerous  fellow.  Very  much 
the  same  thing  happened  when  I  was  in  Austria ' 

'Whatever  did  you  go  to  Austria  for?'  I  asked. 

'For  money,  of  course,  for  palanche — they  give  better  wages 
than  here,  but  I  only  stayed  a  fortnight.  There  were  several  of  us 
Italians  working  for  that  man,  as  well  as  a  number  of  Austrians.  The 
boss  came  one  evening,  just  as  we  were  going  home,  and  wanted 
something  done  to  a  cart  which  stood  loaded.  Seeing  us  Italians 
standing  there  together,  he  called  to  us  in  German,  telling  us  what 
to  do,  but  we  could  not  understand  him.  Instead  of  calling  the  other 
workmen,  who  were  all  there  and  could  have  done  it  just  as  well, 
or  given  a  hand  to  show  us  what  he  meant — he  began  making  fun  of 
our  ignorance,  and  they  all  grinned.  It  was  more  than  I  could  stand. 
Clenching  my  fists  and  coming  a  step  forward,  I  shouted  at  him  : 


i52  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

"  Goddam,  son  of  a  bitch  !  "  He  turned  quite  pale  and  walked 
quickly  away,  continually  looking  over  his  shoulder  to  see  if  I  were 
following.  Next  day,  as  I  couldn't  go  back  to  work  there — I  came 
home.' 

'I  should  run  away  too,  if  you  looked  at  me  with  flashing  black 
eyes  like  that,'  I  said;  'we  are  not  used  to  that  sort  of  thing  in 
England  either.  I  wonder  what  you  look  like  when  you  are  really 
angry.' 

'But  I  am  never  really  angry,'  he  answered. 

'In  England  we  also  have  the  idea  that  Italians  are  cut-throats 
and  robbers ' 

'But  not  in  these  parts.' 

'Perhaps  not — but  we  don't  trouble  to  discriminate.  As  long 
as  you  wear  a  black  slouch  hat,  and  have  glittering  black  eyes  and  a 
hand-bill  at  your  belt,  how  can  you  expect  us  to  think  you  are  any- 
thing but  a  brigand?  Now  I  wonder  whether  you  would  throw  me 
down  one  of  these  precipices  for  the  sake  of  the  money  in  my  purse.' 

'But,  signora,'  he  cried,  sitting  bolt  upright,  'not  for  a  thousand 
lire  would  I  do  such  a  thing  ! ' 

'But  you  don't  know  how  much  is  in  my  purse/  I  objected. 

'No?' 

'  Four  lire  and  a  half,  I  think,'  was  what  I  answered. 

'  It  would  make  no  difference  if  it  were  four  or  four  thousand  lire,' 
he  said;  'besides,  we  have  been  seen  up  here  together,  and  if  any- 
thing happened,  I  would  be  called  to  account.  Come  on,'  he  said, 
getting  up,  'I  want  to  show  you  that  place  where  the  man  fell  down 
and  was  killed  last  year.' 

We  looked  down  the  dreadful  place  and  shuddered,  and  passed 


THE  MOUNTAIN  153 

on  to  where  the  peasants  sometimes  sit  and  sing  on  summer  evenings. 
When  Nino's  mother  was  living  they  often  sang  there.  She  had  a 
beautiful  voice,  and  so  had  others  who  were  now  either  dead  or  in 
America.  The  singing  could  be  heard  right  down  in  the  town,  and 
the  people  would  come  out  and  applaud. 

We  crossed  the  valley  and  came  up  to  the  signer's  house.  We 
rested  on  his  garden  seat.  Nino  felt  very  daring  to  do  this.  The 
seat  was  in  one  of  those  places  where  there  is  always  a  breeze.  I 
soon  got  to  know  and  enjoy  those  windy  spots,  they  were  quite  local; 
a  few  yards  off,  the  air  would  be  still  and  breathless. 

On  the  green  in  front  of  the  house  was  the  signer's  private  chapel, 
a  minute  pl?,ce  with  an  altar.  There  was  just  room  for  the  priest 
inside,  the  congregation  had  to  kneel  out  on  the  turf.  It  was  hardly 
ever  used. 

We  walked  ruthlessly  over  the  grass  to  a  pathway.  Nino,  who 
had  not  been  up  the  mountain  for  some  time,  was  dismayed  at  the 
sight  of  the  grass.  The  dry  weather  had  parched  it  and  there  would 
be  very  little  hay.  It  was  hardly  worth  mowing  in  parts.  He  was 
upset  about  it,  although  he  had  no  lands  there  nor  hay  belonging 
to  him.  The  path  brought  us  to  La  Pallina  and  the  direct  road 
down  to  Campia. 

We  never  found  Marget. 

I  was  now  more  than  ever  determined  to  stay  on  the  mountain. 
Filip,  however,  was  a  difficult  man  to  deal  with,  he  wouldn't  say 
how  soon  I  might  come  nor  what  his  terms  were.  The  Di  Marchesis 
were  proud  people  and  would  not  ask  anything  but  a  fair  price.  It 
would,  however,  be  quite  different  if  I  made  a  liberal  offer.  They 


154  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

could  then  tell  their  neighbours,  with  a  shrug,  that  it  was  I  who 
had  decided  the  price — as  for  them,  they  would  have  been  content 
with  half  or  even  a  quarter.  .  .  . 

In  the  end  I  asked  Rosina  to  settle  the  matter  for  me,  and  she 
paid  Filip  a  visit,  arranging  everything  in  her  admirable  way,  after 
having  picturesquely  told  Filip  that  I  had  threatened  to  beat  her  if 
she  did  not  bring  matters  to  a  head.  She  did  not,  however,  forget 
his  interests,  and  suggested  the  highest  price  that  she  thought  it 
likely  I  would  give,  fifteen  lire  the  month. 

I  was  to  have  the  smaller  bedroom,  use  of  the  kitchen,  fire-wood, 
and  a  supply  of  water  fetched  from  the  tank.  On  my  behalf  Rosina 
asked  for  crockery,  a  chair  and  table  for  the  bedroom,  and  a  bowl 
to  wash  in ;  also  a  heap  of  fresh  hay  for  our  beds  and  a  curtain  for 
the  bedroom  doorway.  Marget  offered  to  wash  up  my  dishes  for  a 
consideration — left  entirely  to  my  liberality,  and  stipulated  that  I 
should  on  no  account  ever  fetch  water  from  the  tank,  as  they  were 
particular  about  the  water  which  was  used  for  drinking ! 

It  was  all  agreed  upon,  and  that  day  week  was  fixed  for  me  to 
move  in. 


CHAPTER  XII 

CORNIGHE 

THE  following  Wednesday  afternoon  Angelina  fetched  us  at  San 
Lorenzo  with  a  donkey.  One  load  of  things  had  already  been  taken 
up  the  mountain  in  the  morning,  now  we  loaded  the  remainder  on 
the  donkey,  and  put  my  little  girl  on  top. 

In  the  village  Marget  joined  us  with  two  goats.  She  carried  a 
large  uncovered  basket  on  her  arm,  in  which  were  six  hens  that  didn't 
like  it.  She  had  on  a  clean  dress  and  apron,  and  on  her  head  she 
wore  a  man's  old  felt  hat,  which  hid  most  of  her  white  hair.  Her 
bright  brown  eyes  were  full  of  humour. 

We  walked  slowly  up  the  mountain  road. 

Donkeys  are  odd  creatures.  This  one,  although  quite  willing  to 
go,  would  only  go  slowly.  Also,  instead  of  walking  along  the  road 
like  human  beings  do,  it  picked  its  own  way.  It  followed  a  sometimes 
invisible,  sometimes  very  worn  track,  which  crossed  and  recrossed 
the  road  a  few  hundred  times.  Sometimes  it  would  follow  the  road 
for  a  few  yards  then  cross  it  suddenly  at  right  angles.  The  donkey 
must  have  walked  six  times  as  far  as  we  did.  After  some  experience 
I  gave  it  a  wide  berth.  If  in  front  one  was  liable  to  be  run  into  or 
bitten,  if  behind,  one's  toes  suffered  if  it  suddenly  turned,  and  I  was 
warned  that  it  kicked.  It  was  never  beaten  nor  hit,  but  Angelina's 

voice  continually  and  energetically  urged  it  on. 

155 


i56  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

*tJ,  ii — num — ii,  va  la,'  she  shouted,  and  Marget  would  join  in 
when  she  wasn't  occupied  with  the  goats.  These  two  animals  ran 
loose  and  were  continually  disappearing  in  the  bushes  or  lagging 
behind. 

'Le,'  called  Marget,  and  the  donkey  stopped  instantly.  'Ta, 
ta,  cicci  ta,'  she  cried,  coaxing  the  goats,  'ta,  ta.'  They  tinkled  out 
from  some  bushes  on  the  road  ahead  of  us. 

'Num,  ii,  num.'  Angelina  started  the  donkey  again,  and  we 
dawdled  on.  One  of  the  hens  in  Marget's  basket,  which  had  been 
restive  for  some  time,  made  a  dash  for  freedom.  It  gave  a  wild 
cackle  and  flapped  its  wings.  Without  any  hesitation  Marget  slapped 
it  on  the  head  and  the  bewildered  creature  became  quiet  and  thoughtful 
for  some  minutes. 

The  road  was  worse  and  steepest  at  the  lower  part,  and  it  was  an 
effort  to  get  up  at  all.  On  one  side  were  rough  rocks  and  small  bushes, 
on  the  other  the  ground  went  down  steeply.  I  wondered  how  the 
oxen  wagon  could  go  up  it  at  all,  and  still  more,  how  ever  it  got 
down.  At  the  top  of  this  stony  steep  part  the  road  turned,  and  there 
were  a  few  level  yards  before  it  divided.  Here  we  sat  and  rested. 
Marget  put  the  basket  down,  and  the  donkey  went  on,  nibbling. 

Before  five  minutes  had  passed,  Marget  was  on  her  feet  again. 

'Num,'  she  said.  It  means  'let  us  go'  as  well  as  'go  on.'  She 
seized  the  basket,  slapped  the  rebellious  hens,  and  pursued  the 
donkey. 

We  took  the  left  path,  it  went  zigzagging  up.  There  were  thick 
bushes  on  either  side,  but  rocks  were  always  in  evidence.  At  one  of 
the  bends  we  saw  Francesca,  who  was  Marget's  eldest  daughter. 
She  and  Stefen  were  twins.  Francesca  stood  among  the  bushes 


CORXIGHE  157 

with  a  broad-brimmed  straw  hat  on  her  head,  looking  extraordinarily 
handsome.  Her  three  little  boys  scampered  to  cover,  and  we  could 
hear  Giacomi,  her  husband,  talking,  although  he  was  hidden  from 
view.  He  and  Girolomo  were  rigging  up  a  wire  for  the  transport 
of  wood.  The  bundles  slid  down  the  wire  to  a  place  near  the 
road. 

We  went  on,  but  were  again  delayed.  The  goats  had  gone  off, 
and  became  mixed  up  with  Francesca's.  Each  called  to  their  goats, 
and  it  was  some  time  before  the  refractory  beasts  would  come.  The 
elderly  brown  goat  should  have  known  better,  the  black  one  was  a 
mad  young  thing,  full  of  mischief.  At  last  they  came  bounding  up 
the  road. 

'Num,'  said  Marget,  and  we  went  on.  The  road  went  up  and  up 
and  up,  and  the  donkey  would  not  hurry.  Finally  we  reached  a 
grassy  space  with  tall  trees  and  a  spring  of  water,  where  the  donkey 
drank.  We  all  sat  down  and  rested,  as  one  must  do  at  this  place 
unless  one  wishes  to  be  unlucky,  at  least  so  I  have  been  told  over 
and  over  again. 

The  road  divided  again,  and  we  took  the  right-hand  path,  which 
seemed  to  run  nearly  parallel  to  the  one  we  had  come  by,  but  it 
mounted  higher  and  higher.  I  would  not  have  felt  so  tired  if  the 
donkey  hadn't  compelled  us  to  dawdle.  By  the  roadside  an  emerald 
green  lizard  dodged  under  the  grass. 

'Num,  num,  ii.'  The  donkey  wouldn't  hurry — it  never  did;  it 
never  had. 

On  we  went,  and  there  was  a  deep  gorge  on  our  right.  So  steep 
was  the  slope  that  the  owner  had  left  a  fringe  of  trees  along  the  road- 
way, so  that  if  an  oxen- wagon  overturned  something  would  stop  it 


1 58  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

from  rolling  to  the  bottom.  The  road  was  so  bad  that  accidents 
were  not  exceptional.  Then  at  last  we  came  to  La  Pallina. 

'  Cornighe,'  said  Marget,  pointing  to  the  little  house  which  seemed 
far  off. 

At  La  Pallina  the  mountain  changed.  No  more  rocks  nor  boulders 
came  up  to  the  surface,  the  ground  was  smooth  and  grassy,  the  slopes 
rounded  but  steep.  Earthy  paths,  muddy  in  places,  branched  off 
in  different  directions  and  were  lost  in  the  grass.  It  was  like  a  great 
park.  No  fence  nor  hedge  divided  up  the  various  properties.  The 
trees  were  different  too.  There  were  rowan  and  beech-trees,  silver 
birches  and  hazel  bushes.  Wild  roses  were  in  flower,  and  amongst 
the  grass  we  found  wild  strawberries.  Bell  heather  grew  in  places, 
and  cranberry  and  bilberry  plants.  We  struck  for  the  ridge  and 
reached  the  crest  half-way  between  Cornighe  and  the  signer's  house. 

It  was  evening,  about  six  o'clock,  and  the  sun  was  already  out  of 
sight  behind  the  mountain.  I  would  have  liked  to  stop  to  enjoy  the 
view,  but  there  was  no  time  to  linger.  Angelina  had  already  reached 
the  hut  and  was  looking  for  the  key. 

I  went  up  to  our  little  bedroom.  It  looked  bare  and  empty. 
There  was  nothing  in  it  but  a  chair  and  a  little  rickety  table  with 
a  flaming  red  cloth  on  it.  Angelina  came  upstairs  with  a  large  sackful 
of  fresh  hay  which  she  shook  out  on  the  floor,  then  went  away  to 
get  more.  Then  she  brought  up  my  other  things,  and  whilst  I  unpacked 
Marget  milked  the  brown  goat  in  the  kitchen.  I  unrolled  our  Willesden 
canvas  sleeping  bags  and  put  the  little  one  to  bed.  She  was  delighted 
with  the  hay  and  said  she  never  wanted  to  sleep  in  a  silly  old  bed 
again. 

I  fetched  her  up  a  bowl  of  goat's  milk.    There  were  no  cups,  the 


CORNIGHE  159 

peasants  never  used  them,  but  Marget  had  provided  me  with  a  few 
plates,  the  first  ones  she  had  ever  possessed,  I  think.  The  Di 
Marchesis  always  used  bowls  for  everything. 

I  made  my  evening  soup  and  sat  with  Marget  by  the  blazing  fire, 
for  it  was  a  chill  evening.  Angelina  had  gone  back  to  Campia  to 
restore  the  donkey  to  its  owner,  and  would  not  be  back  before  the 
morrow. 

•  •••*•* 

When  Angelina  returned  to  Cornighe  she  brought  a  kitten  with 
her,  a  dear  little  gray  and  white  pussy.  It  was  very  playful,  and  we 
watched  it  with  amusement  catching  flies.  It  would  jump  into  the 
au:  and  catch  a  fly  in  its  mouth,  or  bound  across  the  floor  and  pin 
its  quarry  down  with  a  paw.  I  never  saw  a  little  kitten  so  clever 
or  so  sure.  Few  flies  escaped  her.  Whether  it  was  hunger  that  drove 
her  to  do  this,  I  do  not  know ;  Marget  suggested  that  it  was  lack  of 
animal  food.  She  fed  the  kitten  on  polenta  and  soup,  for  she  could 
hardly  spare  the  meat  she  could  ill  afford  herself.  Poor  little  Mini 
didn't  like  polenta,  and  was  always  hoping  to  be  given  something  else. 
When  we  sat  down  for  a  meal  she  would  prowl  round  the  table  and 
yowl  until  we  gave  her  something,  and  having  eaten  it  would  yowl  again. 

One  morning  when  Mini's  yowls  were  particularly  persistent, 
Marget  lost  her  temper.  I  was  just  about  to  slop  some  more  milk 
on  the  floor  for  the  kitten  to  lick  up,  when  Marget  picked  up  a  long 
switch  and  gave  the  kitten  a  savage  cut  with  it.  Mini  gave  a  wild 
yell,  bounded  out  of  doors,  and  rushed  up  the  nearest  tree. 

My  little  girl  was  indignant  at  the  cruelty  of  it ;  she  burst  into 
tears  and,  without  a  word,  left  her  breakfast  and  ran  upstairs  to  cry 
loudly  on  the  bed. 


160  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

It  was  nearly  more  than  Marget  could  bear.  Had  I  remonstrated 
with  her,  she  could  have  defended  her  action.  But  these  tears — this 
wordless  rebuke  !  She  loved  the  little  girl,  and  would  never  willingly 
have  brought  tears  to  her  eyes.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her  that 
she  would  mind  such  a  thing.  .  .  . 

I  ate  my  breakfast  in  silence,  listening  to  the  pitiful  sobs  upstairs. 
Marget  said  nothing.  At  last  the  little  girl  came  down  with  a  red, 
tear-streaked  face.  Stopping  in  the  middle  of  the  kitchen  she  said, 
with  all  the  determination  she  could  muster  : — 

'Marget — if  you  do  that  again,  I  will  go  upstairs  and  cry  for  a  whole 
half-hour  !  ' 

No  threat  could  have  been  more  effective.  Marget  covered  with 
shame,  went  out  of  doors. 

Life  on  the  mountain  was  very  different  from  life  at  San  Lorenzo. 
There  was  no  coming  and  going  of  people,  no  hurry  nor  bustle.  The 
Di  Marchesis  never  shouted,  but  were  quiet  industrious  people. 
They  had  never  had  anything  to  do  with  tourists  or  foreigners,  and 
Giacom  was  the  only  one  of  them  who  could  talk  passable  Italian. 
Compared  with  them,  Rosina  seemed  cosmopolitan.  Her  aim  was 
to  make  money.  What  was  money  to  the  Di  Marchesis?  ...  To 
overcharge  they  condemned  as  robbery.  They  despised  Rosina, 
they  despised  Nino,  they  despised  most  people,  and  they  had  enormous 
faith  in  themselves. 

I  never  discovered  where  the  Di  Marchesis  originally  came  from. 
They  had  been  in  the  village  for  at  least  five  generations.  Their 
name  suggested  an  aristocratic  origin,  and  their  courtly  ways  and 
exclusiveness  the  nobility. 


CORNIGHE  161 

They  were  very  kind  to  me,  but  I  soon  discovered  that  I  must  in 
no  way  interfere  with  their  habits.  Without  a  word  they  would 
remove  my  dinner  off  the  fire  if  they  wanted  to  cook  theirs — a  thing 
Bortolo  would  have  apologised  half  an  hour  for  doing.  It  was  difficult 
for  me  to  fit  things  in,  for  they  were  very  unpunctual.  They  had 
dinner  at  any  time  between  eleven  and  twelve-thirty.  In  other  ways 
they  never  interfered  with  me  at  all,  and  I  don't  think  I  ever  lived 
with  people  who  got  less  in  my  way.  At  times,  when  the  weather 
was  bad,  we  were  thrown  very  much  together,  and  were  quite  a  little 
party  in  the  kitchen.  There  was  Marget,  Angelina,  the  two  sons 
Gioan  and  Giacom,  and  the  latter's  red-haired  wife. 

Giacom  had  inherited  some  of  the  energy  of  his  mother,  and  was 
a  handy  man,  never  idle.  He  had  something  attractively  boyish 
about  him  which  made  up  for  his  horrible  self-righteousness.  He 
lived  according  to  'rules  and  regulations,'  and  it  was  a  waste  that 
he  was  not  in  the  police  force,  as  he  longed  to  be,  looking  after  the 
morals  of  others.  Giacom's  'rules  and  regulations'  had  never  been 
shaken,  he  was  as  full  of  good  intentions  as  the  leaf  one  turns  over 
every  New  Year.  He  did  not  believe  in  impulses  or  temptations  or 
instincts,  or  anything  not  ruled  by  cool  reason.  How  he  despised 
Nino,  that  sinful  mortal — he  hadn't  much  to  say  to  him.  But  he 
never  had  the  temptations  of  Nino.  Emotional,  sensitive,  and  with 
a  keen  appreciation  of  beauty,  Nino  had  not  always  been  the  master 
of  his  impulses.  Life  had  been  very  real  to  him,  full  of  disappoint- 
ment and  bad  luck,  and  the  starvation  which  had  left  that  odd  frail 
look.  Had  he  been  weak  he  would  have  gone  to  the  bad  long  ago, 
but  trouble  had  made  him  thoughtful  and  a  little  wistful.  His  wife 
adored  him,  wept  when  he  was  too  much  of  a  trial,  but  stuck  up 


162  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

for  him  always.  Giacom,  of  course,  had  chosen  his  wife  for  her  good 
qualities,  and  not  for  her  looks.  She  was  a  sensible  girl,  excellent  in 
every  way,  but  absolutely  uninteresting.  Still,  I  don't  think  any 
one  could  have  suited  him  better,  and  she  had  enough  tact  to  manage 
him  and  get  her  own  way.  She  and  Teresina  were  sisters. 

Marget  was  a  splendid  old  woman  of  seventy-one,  full  of  character. 
Wiry  and  vigorous,  she  could  work  all  day  and  do  the  work  of  a 
man.  She  liked  work,  she  liked  heavy  loads  and  to  feel  that  she  could 
carry  them.  She  was  never  tired  nor  measured  her  strength,  it 
always  lasted  her  to  the  end  of  the  day,  whatever  task  she  under- 
took. 

Indoors  she  always  knitted  or  else  spun  wool,  in  the  old  way, 
without  a  wheel.  She  knitted  numbers  of  white  sock  feet,  just  the 
sole  with  heel  and  toe,  which  she  sewed  on  to  old  tops,  seldom  doing 
any  darning.  No  Di  Marches!  ever  went  about  with  a  hole  in  his 
stocking — she  saw  to  that.  When  alone  in  the  kitchen  she  always 
whistled.  I  think  I  would  have  loved  her  for  that  alone,  for  I  too 
like  to  whistle,  but  I  never  knew  any  old  woman  who  did.  She  whistled 
old-fashioned  ballad  tunes,  that  must  have  had  at  least  fifty  verses 
to  them,  but  she  never  sang  them. 

None  of  her  children  were  really  like  her.  Giacom  had  her  energy 
but  none  of  them  had  her  wit.  None  of  them  could  tell  a  story  as 
she  could,  half  acting  it.  She  could  take  off  La  Macuccia  to  perfection, 
voice  and  all.  We  would  shriek  with  laughter  round  the  fire  of  an 
evening,  and  the  more  we  laughed  the  funnier  she  became.  She  was 
never  vulgar.  Her  tales  were  such  as  are  not  usually  told  before  an 
audience  of  both  sexes,  but  in  Campia  a  spade  is  called  a  spade,  and 
no  one  seemed  the  worse  for  it. 


CORNIGHE  163 

Nino  once  said  to  me  :  'When  Marget  is  angry  she  is  ferocious — 
even  Filip  is  afraid  of  her  then.'  I  had  never  thought  that  Filip 
would  be  frightened  of  any  one,  least  of  all  her.  With  one  of  his 
big  hands  he  could  have  crushed  her.  It  was  a  case  of  dignity  and 
impudence  then.  Whether  she  ever  went  for  Filip  with  a  broom- 
stick, I  do  not  know.  Her  tall  sons  she  treated  with  the  greatest 
respect.  Gioan  simply  didn't  answer  if  she  asked  an  awkward 
question,  so  that  she  had  grown  out  of  the  habit  of  asking.  Quite 
eagerly  she  questioned  me  one  day  if  Gioan  had  spoken  of  going  to 
America.  'I  dare  not  ask  him,'  she  said,  'but  I  am  afraid  he  thinks 
of  going.' 

It  was  on  her  daughter  that  Marget  vented  her  ferocity.  Poor 
Angelina  had  had  many  a  beating,  and  she  will  doubtless  have  many 
more.  Marget  tyrannised  over  the  poor  girl,  and  Angelina,  who  had 
some  spirit,  would  answer  back,  and  she  would  take  the  blows  in 
rebellious  mood.  Why  might  her  brothers  do  and  say  things  for 
which  she  would  be  punished?  Her  red-haired  and  excellent  sister- 
in-law  would  whisper  words  of  wisdom  to  her  about  the  deportment 
which  were  the  lot  and  restrictions  of  the  female  sex.  But  that 
didn't  make  Angelina's  back  any  the  less  sore. 

In  common  with  several  old  women  of  Campia,  Marget  had  very 
decided  opinions  regarding  the  matrimonial  alliances  of  her  children. 
She  was  absolutely  against  Angelina  marrying  Raimondo.  She  beat 
Angelina  if  she  only  heard  her  speaking  to  Raimondo,  and  the  unfor- 
tunate girl  hardly  dare  look  at  her  lover.  Marget  didn't  like  him 
because  his  family  wasn't  of  the  real  aristocracy  of  Campia,  nor 
could  he  make  up  by  wealth  for  lack  of  birth. 

'What !'  she  said,  'Angelina  marry  one  of  those  cuckoos?    Didn't 


i64  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

you  know  that  his  father  has  been  nicknamed  Cuckoo,  because  he 
is  an  old  fool?' 

'But  you  have  nothing  against  Raimondo/  I  suggested. 

'He  is  extravagant.'  That  is  all  she  would  say.  I  think  the 
only  reason  she  thought  so  was  because  he  had  given  Angelina  some 
rather  nice  presents,  and  if  there  was  anything  Marget  hated  it  was 
for  a  peasant  to  go  in  for  finery.  She  glanced  scornfully  at  the 
jewelled  side-combs,  the  fan  with  the  long  chain,  and  the  little 
brooches  which  Angelina  treasured. 

Marget  had  been  equally  opposed  to  her  elder  daughter  Fran- 
cesca's  marriage.  A  young  man  had  been  chosen  whom  Francesca 
would  not  look  at;  instead  she  had  fallen  in  love  with  Giacomi,  who 
played  the  guitar  and  hadn't  a  penny.  How  many  broomsticks  had 
been  broken  over  her  back  I  do  not  know,  but  I  heard  she  had  been 
much  more  beaten  than  Angelina  ever  had  been !  In  the  end  love 
triumphed,  Marget  being  only  too  willing  to  give  in  when  it  meant 
avoiding  a  scandal.  For  Gioan  she  had  also  selected  a  wife,  the  only 
daughter  of  the  only  comparatively  well-to-do  peasants  in  Campia. 
But  Gioan  didn't  like  the  girl  and  wouldn't  discuss  it — so  there  was 
an  end  of  that. 

Tranquil-looking  old  Anetta  was  another  broomstick  fury.  She 
had  a  strong  arm  and  a  long  tongue.  Cristofolo  had  a  holy  respect 
for  her.  She  had  successfully  beaten  the  unwilling  Maria  into  marrying 
Stefen — Marget's  eldest  son,  who  had  been  madly  in  love  with  her. 
As  for  Dominica  she  had  simply  run  away  from  home  to  save  her  back. 

Thus  the  old  women  of  Campia  tried  to  direct  the  destinies  of 
others.  I  understood  now  the  appropriateness  of  witches  being 
depicted  with  broomsticks. 


CORNIGHE  165 

On  the  whole  I  respected  the  men  of  Campia  much  more  than  the 
women.  They  were  patient  and  treated  their  wives  well.  They  were 
more  developed  mentally  and  morally,  more  responsible  and  much 
more  interesting.  It  is  perhaps  sad  to  reflect  —  at  least  for  a  woman 
—  that  this  was  the  case,  for  both  sexes  had  the  same  educational  oppor- 
tunities until  the  men  left  for  military  service,  which  made  an 
important  change  in  their  lives.  I  was  a  little  disappointed  in  the 
women;  perhaps  because  during  a  short  visit  to  France  I  had  been 
much  more  favourably  impressed  by  French  women  of  the  lower 
classes  than  by  Frenchmen,  and  had  formed  the  idea  that  this  was 
a  characteristic  of  the  Latin  races.  But  no  such  thing.  In  Campia 
the  men  easily  took  the  first  place,  they  had  all  the  good  looks  too, 
and  were  handsomer  than  the  women,  who,  although  strong  and 
well-built,  had  plain  faces. 

Some  of  the  younger  women  had  ideas  about  gentility  and  would 
not  work  in  the  fields,  much  to  their  detriment,  for  they  paid  for  it 
with  bad  health.  It  was  the  more  to  be  regretted,  as  there  were  so 
many  lighter  tasks  within  their  strength,  and  the  men  all  had  more 
than  enough  to  do. 

Many  women  would  do  unfair  things,  such  as  sell  olives  behind 
their  husband's  back.  The  husband  would  bring  olives  home  and 
put  them  hi  the  room  upstairs,  and  whilst  he  was  away,  his  wife 
v/ould  go  up  and  take  a  few  pounds  and  sell  them  secretly  in 
town  and  keep  the  money. 

'When  I  married,'  said  Marget,  'my  mother  said  to  me  —  if  you 
need  any  money,  ask  your  husband  for  it,  but  don't  steal  his  goods. 
How  can  a  man  grow  rich,  signora,  if  his  wife  sells  his  olives  behind 
his  back  ?  There  is  a  woman  in  the  town  who  does  a  lot  of  trade 


M 


166  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

buying  small  quantities  of  olives  and  other  things  too.  Filip's  deaf 
brother's  wife  did  that  sort  of  thing.' 

'Why  doesn't  his  daughter  marry?'  I  remarked.  'She's  a  nice 
looking  girl.' 

'I  don't  know,'  she  said,  and  lowering  her  voice  added,  'She's 
another  of  them.  The  way  that  girl  cheats  her  old  father  !  He 
gives  her  money  to  buy  things  in  the  town,  and  she  buys  just  a  little 
less  than  he  tells  her  to,  and  then  keeps  the  odd  palanche  for  herself. 
In  spite  of  it  all  he  prefers  her  to  his  other  children,  who  are  honest 
and  decent.' 

'Perhaps  she  is  like  her  mother,'  I  reflected. 

'In  every  way,'  said  Marget  significantly.  'Lucia  is  another  one 
who  sells  olives.  She  buys  stuff  with  the  money  to  clothe  her 
children.' 

Some  one  knocked  loudly  at  the  door.  Marget  slid  her  feet  into 
her  wooden-soled  slippers,  and  clattered  to  open  it. 

Outside  stood  the  brown  goat. 

'  Mostro ! '  she  cried,  and  looking  round  for  the  black  one, 
exclaimed :  'and  where  is  the  other  Garibaldi? — ah,  there  you  are, 
faccia  nera — ta,  ta,  ta.  .  .  .' 

No  goat  can  resist  that  call. 

She  had  her  bag  ready,  and  taking  some  salt  out,  let  each  goat 
lick  some  out  of  her  hand,  then  wishing  them  to  move  off,  she  went 
for  them  with  a  stick.  The  goats  scuttled  off  about  ten  yards  and 
then  turned  to  stare  at  her,  impertinently  chewing. 

'Fiol  d'una  vacca,  be  off  with  you,'  she  cried,  'pel  del  anticrist,' 
chuckling  at  her  own  violence  as  she  came  in. 

'I  suppose  if  you  give  them  salt  they  always  come  back  for  it, 


CORNIGHE  167 

and  do  not  stray  away  altogether/  I  observed;  'but  don't  you  ever 
find  that  sheep  wander  off  ? '  I  knew  there  was  no  fence  nor  wall  to 
keep  them  from  straying  for  miles  and  miles. 

'No/  she  answered,  'they  never  go  off  the  mountain — but  they 
go  all  over  the  place/ 

'  How  do  you  keep  them  from  straying  on  your  neighbours'  lands  ? ' 

'We  don't/  she  said,  'but  as  their  goats  stray  all  over  our  lands 
it  doesn't  matter.  But,  of  course,  if  the  guardie  find  them  amongst 
the  little  bushes,  we  are  fined/ 

'And  who  are  the  guardie?'  I  asked. 

'They  come  up  every  now  and  then/  she  said,  'always  two  of 
them  together,  to  see  that  we  don't  do  as  we  shouldn't.  They  have 
to  see  that  no  trees  of  a  certain  size  are  felled,  and  to  keep  an  eye 
on  the  charcoal-burners  in  consequence.  Then  they  see  that  the 
men  don't  cut  twigs  from  the  bushes,  which  is  not  allowed  until  the 
autumn.  There  are  numbers  of  things  which  are  against  the  law. 
Giacom  was  fined  last  year.  The  guardie  passed  by  whilst  he  was 
mowing,  he  had  accidentally  cut  two  twigs  from  a  bush  with  his 
scythe.  The  guardie  saw  them.  .  .  .  The  goats  aren't  allowed  among 
the  small  bushes,  because  they  eat  the  tops  off  and  kill  the  plants. 
It  is  a  wise  law,  no  doubt,  but  who  can  keep  the  goats  from  wandering 
to  such  places?  We  do  our  best  and  call  them  off  if  we  hear  the  bells 
tinkling  on  forbidden  ground — but  still 

'  And  how  do  they  manage  at  the  cattle  farm  ? '  I  asked. 

'Cattle  farms  are  exempt  from  that  law/  she  answered. 

'  Hasn't  Giuseppe  just  been  fined  ? '  I  asked. 

'Yes — and  my  son  Stefen  too.  They  have  been  burning  charcoal 
for  a  signer,  who  ordered  them  to  cut  down  all  the  trees.  The  guardie 


i63  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

came,  and  finding  the  whole  slope  bare,  went  poking  about  among 
the  stumps,  and  found,  I  don't  know  how  many,  of  the  forbidden 
size.  The  gentleman  was  heavily  fined,  but  so  were  Giuseppe  and 
Stefen ;  they  had  to  pay  ten  lire  each,  the  poor  devils.  Bird  traps 
are  also  forbidden,  signora,  Gioan  is  very  clever  at  making  them.' 

'Has  he  been  fined?' 

'Not  yet.' 

I  do  not  think  the  peasants  paid  much  attention  to  these  laws 
until  they  had  been  fined.  Then,  as  the  second  fine  would  be  so 
much  heavier,  they  decided  to  take  no  more  risks.  But  I  hardly 
believe  anything  short  of  penal  servitude  would  stop  Gioan  from 
setting  bird  traps,  he  had  a  perfect  passion  for  it.  That  and  hunting 
for  snails  were  his  only  diversions.  Whenever  it  was  raining,  and  it 
very  often  did  rain,  he  would  move  off  with  a  sack  on  his  shoulder 
and  return  with  a  good  supply  of  big  snails,  which  Marget  kept 
imprisoned  hi  baskets  in  the  larder,  until  they  were  required  for  a 
stew.  Gioan  could  neither  read  nor  write  beyond  signing  his  own 
name,  and  he  spoke  the  rankest  dialect.  All  words  of  doubtful 
pronunciation  that  I  had  collected  together  in  my  list  of  dialect  words, 
were  referred  to  him,  and  his  pronunciation  was  unerring,  un- 
hampered as  it  was  by  any  knowledge  of  the  Italian  language.  His 
younger  brother,  Giacom,  had  taken  great  pains  to  learn  Italian 
when  he  was  serving  hi  the  carabiniere,  and  often  amused  us  with 
his  stately  phrases. 

The  carabiniere  are  trained  to  be  very  cleanly,  and  Giacom  prided 
himself  on  his  cleanliness,  but  I  had  not  much  fault  to  find  with 
most  of  the  inhabitants  of  Campia.  But  Giacom  went  as  far  as  to 
condemn  manure  heaps.  He  said  they  were  disgusting.  Whenever 


CORNIGHE  169 

he  had  been  away  for  some  time  and  returned  home,  the  smell  from 
the  courtyard  of  his  father's  house  always  sickened  him.  He  had 
sound  hygienic  ideas  on  the  subject,  and  impressed  them  on  me. 

Some  time  ago,  during  a  cholera  scare,  all  manure  heaps  were 
ordered  to  be  removed  from  the  vicinity  of  houses,  and  all  court- 
yards to  be  cleaned  out,  on  pain  of  a  large  fine. 

'  And  what  happened  ? '  I  asked. 

'Nothing/  answered  Giacom.  'Do  you  think  any  one  would 
take  the  trouble  to  do  that?  They  waited  for  the  police  to  come  up 
and  make  an  example  of  one  or  two  by  fining  them.  If  that  had 
happened  the  whole  place  would  have  been  cleared  up  at  once.  But 
the  police  didn't  come,  and  neither  did  the  cholera.' 

Cleanliness  and  dirtiness  were  very  local  in  this  part  of  Italy. 
Some  villages,  and  even  whole  districts,  were  reputed  to  be  notoriously 
dirty,  others,  perhaps  only  a  few  miles  off,  were  clean  and  nice.  Giacom 
told  me  the  most  disgusting  stories  of  some  of  these  notorious  places, 
which  he  insisted  were  true.  On  one  occasion  he  had  firmly  told 
the  head  man  of  a  certain  village  that  he  must  wash  his  hands  before 
signing  the  papers,  so  dirty  was  he.  And  at  another  place,  when 
he  had  ordered  an  omelette  for  dinner,  was  horrified  to  see  the  house- 
wife beat  the  eggs  up  in  the  leather  apron  she  was  wearing.  He 
would  not  eat  the  omelette,  but  he  paid  for  it.  ... 

Every  evening  at  eight-thirty  the  Di  Marchesis  went  up  to  bed. 
Giacom  had  put  a  partition  up  in  the  big  bedroom  where  they  all 
slept.  They  were  so  quick  getting  into  bed  that  I  am  sure  they  did 
not  take  many  of  their  clothes  off,  probably  the  women  only  removed 
their  dresses,  and  the  men  their  trousers.  They  got  on  to  the  rustling 


i7o  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

mattresses,  laid  down,  and  never  moved  again.  I  think  they  must 
have  dropped  asleep  almost  instantly.  I  could  hear  every  sound 
plainly  in  my  room.  They  never  washed  in  the  bedroom,  but  hands 
and  faces  were  washed  downstairs  before  breakfast,  and  none  of 
them  ever  sat  down  to  a  meal  without  first  washing  their  hands. 
Marget  told  me  that  she  had  never  washed  her  body — and  yet  she 
was  the  neatest  and  cleanliest  old  peasant  woman  I  know. 

Perhaps  diet  plays  an  important  part  in  bodily  cleanliness.  The 
Di  Marchesis  ate  very  little  meat,  and  they  were  not  large  eaters. 
They  frequently  changed  their  linen,  and  the  beds  were  always  clean. 
And  if  they  did  not  wash,  they  had  none  of  those  pests  which  uncleanli- 
ness  breeds.  The  Di  Marchesis  had  no  fleas. 

They  were  up  at  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  for  breakfast 
ate  the  hotted  up  remainder  of«last  night's  soup.  The  bowls  of  the 
previous  evening  had  been  placed  in  a  row  on  a  table,  the  spoons 
well  licked,  and  in  the  morning  each  claimed  his  bowl  for  the  break- 
fast soup. 

The  second  meal,  at  which  polenta  was  eaten  with  chunks  of  cheese, 
was  between  six  and  seven.  Dinner  was  at  eleven-thirty,  polenta 
again,  with  a  scrap  of  meat  or  vegetables  with  olive  oil  poured  over, 
or  stewed  fungi  or  snails,  or,  on  Fridays,  salt  fish.  There  never  was 
a  pudding  course,  or  any  sweetened  dish  whatever. 

At  tea-time  the  polenta  left  over  from  dinner  was  cut  in  slabs  and 
toasted  on  the  fire  tongs,  which  were  laid  across  the  embers.  Some- 
times pieces  of  cheese  were  toasted  as  well.  For  supper,  soup  was 
invariably  eaten.  It  was  made  without  meat  or  stock,  but  often 
some  milk  was  added  to  it.  It  was  thick  with  rice  and  potatoes,  or 
Italian  paste  and  beans. 


CD 

s: 
o 

R- 

OS 


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H 


CORNIGHE  171 

Day  in,  day  out,  the  peasants  practically  ate  the  same  food,  nor 
did  they  seem  to  mind  nor  complain  of  the  monotony.  They  were 
never  greedy  about  eating.  Sweets  and  cakes  they  were  very  fond 
of,  but  such  luxuries  were  quite  beyond  their  means.  When  in  season 
they  had  plenty  of  fruit. 

Rosina  always  sat  down  to  dinner  at  a  table  spread  with  a  white 
cloth,  and  the  family  ate  off  plates  and  used  a  fork.  But  then  Rosina 
thought  herself  better  than  her  neighbours.  Other  peasants  never 
used  a  cloth  except  on  Sundays  or  special  occasions.  The  Di  Marchesis 
never  sat  round  the  table,  but  squatted  picturesquely  round  the 
room,  one  on  the  stairs,  one  on  the  hearth-stone,  Angelina  always 
on  the  floor,  and  Giacom  on  the  high  stool.  Each  held  a  slab  of  polenta 
in  one  hand,  and  balanced  a  little  bowl  of  savoury  on  their  knees. 
If  it  was  a  stew  they  ate  with  a  fork,  otherwise  fingers.  Mini  prowled 
expectantly,  and  was  rewarded  with  a  snack  here  and  a  snack  there. 
She  yowled  to  her  heart's  content.  Marget  took  no  further  notice  of  it. 

The  cooking  utensils  were  always  scrupulously  clean  and  the 
washing  up  was  never  left  standing  about.  It  was  washed  and  rinsed 
and  left  standing  to  drain,  a  dishcloth  was  not  used,  nobody  could 
afford  one.  I  never  had  cause  to  complain  of  how  my  washing  up 
was  done,  nor,  in  fact,  of  anything.  The  Di  Marchesis  kept  their 
word  and  did  everything  that  had  been  promised.  There  was  always 
a  sufficient  supply  of  drinking  water  in  the  house,  and  there  was 
never  a  shortage  of  firewood  indoors.  Of  course  they  were  economical, 
pitifully  so.  Nothing  was  wasted.  I  remembered  how  horrified 
Rosina  had  been  when  I  had  thoughtlessly  shaken  the  tablecloth  out 
of  doors.  She  wanted  the  precious  crumbs  for  the  pig.  Nor  would 
she  let  me  give  bones  to  the  dog,  until  she  had  extracted  every  atom 


i72  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

of  nourishment  out  of  them.  It  was  not  only  in  food  that  the  peasants 
were  economical.  Marget  possessed  nothing  beyond  the  bare  necessities 
of  life.  She  had  two  sewing  needles,  and  only  a  few  pins,  which  were 
kept  in  a  pin-cushion  hung  up  by  the  window.  Her  clothes  were 
neat,  but  scarred  with  patches.  She  never  pretended  to  be  anything 
but  a  peasant,  and  couldn't  abide  manners  or  customs  which  aped  the 
signori  class.  At  first  she  refused  the  biscuits  I  offered  her  because 
they  were  not  the  kind  of  food  for  such  as  she.  It  was  with  the 
greatest  difficulty  I  got  her  to  taste  some  tea.  It  went  against  all 
her  principles  to  enjoy  the  good  things  of  the  upper  classes. 

Once,  when  there  had  been  a  mistake  about  the  butter,  and  I 
found  I  had  too  much,  I  gave  half  a  pound  to  the  red-haired  daughter- 
in-law.  She  was  delighted. 

'But  I  must  ask  you,  signora/  she  said  in  an  undertone,  'not  to 
tell  Marget.  I  am  so  fond  of  butter  spread  on  bread,  but  Marget 
won't  hear  of  us  eating  such  a  thing.  She  would  be  furious  and  accuse 
me  of  pretending  to  be  a  lady.  '  .  .  We  may  only  use  just  a  little 
for  cooking.  When  I  was  in  service  I  learnt  to  like  bread  and  butter. 
.  .  .  My  husband  is  not  so  strict — he  will  not  mind  my  eating  it.' 

I  think  that  the  Di  Marchesis  must  have  considered  it  dishonour- 
able to  set  foot  in  my  bedroom  during  my  absence.  Nothing  of  mine 
was  ever  touched,  and  it  chanced  that  I  had  lost  the  key  of  my  bag 
and  had  no  means  whatever  of  keeping  any  of  my  things  locked. 
Once  when  I  had  to  go  down  to  the  town  I  left  my  little  girl  in  their 
care.  When  bedtime  came  they  simply  sent  her  upstairs,  and  let  the 
mite  undress  and  put  herself  to  bed.  She  was  only  four  and  a  half 
years  old.  None  of  the  women  went  into  the  bedroom  with  her,  to 
see  what  sort  of  a  job  she  made  of  it. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

HAYMAKERS 

'THIS  is  the  path,  signora,'  said  Gioan,  as  I  stood  watching  him 
mow,  'which  the  signer  wanted  us  to  widen.' 

'Whatever  for?'  I  asked,  astonished,  looking  at  the  little  track 
which  led  up  the  hillside. 

'He  wanted  it  widened  so  that  two  people  could  walk  abreast. 
It  leads  to  the  pink  villa  belonging  to  his  mother-in-law,  and  he 
wished  to  be  able  to  walk  from  his  big  house  to  the  villa  on  a  broad 
path,  across  our  lands.  My  father  refused.' 

'I  see  that  they  have  widened  the  path  farther  on  by  the  villa/ 
I  said. 

'No  doubt  you  saw  how  senseless  it  was,'  he  replied.  "The  earth 
all  tumbles  down  into  the  path — every  year  a  little  more — and  spoils 
the  land  for  hay.' 

'I  am  sure  Filip  was  quite  right  to  refuse,'  I  said,  thankful  that 
Cornighe  was  without  the  signer's  promenade,  'but  what  did  the 
signer  say  ? ' 

'Before  that,'  said  Gioan,  beginning  to  sharpen  his  scythe,  'they 
used  to  come  to  Cornighe  and  buy  eggs,  and  talk  a  bit  with  my  mother. 
They  pass  by  without  a  word  of  greeting  now.  .  .  The  signori 

want  it  all  their  own  way.' 

173 


i74  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

I  stood  watching  Gioan  mow  with  his  short-bladed  scythe,  back- 
breaking  work.  The  slope  was  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  degrees,  very 
uneven  and  broken  with  bushes.  It  was  quite  a  fine  art  to  mow 
close  to  the  bushes  without  cutting  the  twigs,  and  although  the  grass 
was  scanty  and  the  slope  steep,  not  a  blade  of  grass  was  left  standing. 

The  women  raked  the  hay  right  down  the  slopes,  and  made  up 
the  cocks,  hi  places  where  Filip  could  bring  the  oxen-wagon.  He  had 
come  up  that  morning  and  was  taking  a  load  of  hay  down  with  him. 
He  never  slept  at  Cornighe.  He  didn't  like  the  mountain,  preferring 
to  stay  all  alone  at  Campia. 

His  conversations  with  me  were  restricted  to  the  following 
sentences. 

'You  are  not  tired  of  being  here  yet?' 

'No,  no,'  I  would  answer.    'I  like  being  here.' 

He  would  look  at  me  with  kindly  blue  eyes,  as  if  I  was  an 
interesting  but  harmless  freak,  and  pass  on  in  his  slow,  dignified 
manner. 

Gioan  and  Giacom  loaded  the  hay  into  the  wagon,  and  it  had  to 
be  done  carefully.  Filip's  wagon  had  bars  on  either  side,  and  the 
hay  would  have  jolted  out  if  it  had  not  been  lined.  They  took  leafy 
branches  for  this,  cutting  them  off  the  bushes  regardless  of  the 
guardie  and  the  laws.  Quite  a  number  of  boughs  were  needed  for  a 
load.  The  hay  was  packed  down  tightly,  and  another  layer  of 
branches  were  corded  on  over  the  top. 

"There  is  no  other  way  to  get  the  hay  down,'  said  Gioan,  'the 
guardie  can  say  what  they  like.  What  do  they  make  silly  laws  for  ? 
Do  they  want  us  to  jolt  the  hay  out  on  to  the  road — or  what?' 

The  back  wheels  had  been  taken  off  and  two  long  poles  substituted, 


HAYMAKERS  175 

which  dragged  along  and  acted  as  a  sort  of  brake.  The  white  oxen 
were  yoked  to  the  wagon,  and  Filip,  holding  the  goad  in  his  left 
hand,  grasped  the  end  of  the  long  shaft  in  his  right.  In  this  manner 
he  guided  the  team  down  all  the  zigzags,  and  round  all  the  corners. 

No  wonder  Filip  wanted  to  doze  after  one  of  these  trips.  It  was 
a  tough  job  to  get  the  cart  safely  down.  It  creaked  and  shrieked 
over  the  uneven  places,  and  it  seemed  impossible  that  every  bit  of 
timber  in  it  was  not  split  and  broken.  The  noise  it  made  drowned 
all  speech.  In  front,  Filip  struggled  with  the  jerking  shaft,  which 
kept  him  from  falling,  continually  looking  back  to  see  what  was 
happening  behind.  Gioan,  at  the  back  of  the  cart,  added  his  weight, 
first  here  and  then  there,  to  keep  it  from  overturning.  It  screeched 
down  slopes  so  steep  that  the  shaft  was  as  high  as  Filip's  head, 
leaving  a  cloud  of  dust  in  its  wake. 

Many  peasants  carried  the  hay  down  themselves  sooner  than  go 
to  the  expense  of  hiring  a  cart.  It  was  done  in  this  way.  Two  poles, 
about  six  or  seven  feet  long,  were  tied  together  so  as  to  form  a  V. 
At  the  place  where  they  were  tied,  a  third  stick,  about  three  and  a 
half  feet  long,  was  fastened  in  such  a  way  that  it  stood  upright,  whilst 
the  two  longer  poles  sloped  down  until  they  touched  the  ground.  A 
layer  of  leafy  boughs  was  placed  on  the  poles,  and  the  hay  packed 
securely  on  top  of  it.  When  it  was  ready,  the  peasant  stooped  down 
and  raised  the  tied  end  of  the  poles  on  his  shoulder,  keeping  it  in 
place  by  the  upright  pole  which  he  held  in  his  hands.  Heavy  loads 
could  be  taken  down  like  this,  loads  which  could  scarcely  have  been 
dragged  on  a  level  road.  Even  a  young  fellow  like  Paolino  could 
drag  a  weight  which  it  nearly  broke  my  collar  bone  to  lift. 

Hay  that  year  was  scanty  and  of  poor  quality.    The  much-longed-for 


1 76  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

rain  had  come  too  late,  and  not  only  had  it  rained  enough  to 
satisfy  any  farmer,  but  it  had  rained  a  great  deal  too  much.  It  still 
rained  nearly  every  day,  and  when  it  didn't  rain  it  was  misty.  I 
seldom  saw  the  distant  views  I  longed  to  paint,  besides,  it  was  far 
too  wet  to  sit  out  of  doors.  We  walked  about  in  mackintoshes  unless 
the  thunder  kept  us  at  home.  It  thundered  practically  every  day. 
Not  that  it  always  affected  us,  the  storms  were  often  on  other  peaks, 
particularly  Monte  Moro,  which  was  the  highest  in  the  neighbourhood. 

At  first  these  storms  terrified  me.  We  were  so  high  up,  so  near  to 
them,  but  I  soon  got  over  that.  The  peasants  paid  them  no  attention 
whatever,  and  assured  me  that  the  lightning  never  did  any  harm. 
I  suppose  they  were  right,  for  nothing  ever  happened,  but  the  con- 
tinual flashes  and  rumblings  were  alarming,  especially  at  night. 

It  was  the  most  exceptional  weather.  The  peasants  shook  their 
heads  and  said  they'd  never  seen  an  August  like  it  before.  Some- 
times it  poured  for  days  together,  and  the  haymakers  did  not  get  on 
very  fast.  Some  would  go  down  to  Campia,  others  stayed  on  the 
mountain  to  work  during  the  short  intervals  when  it  cleared.  Gioan 
had  plenty  of  opportunity  to  stroll  about  looking  for  snails.  Giacom 
sat  hi  the  kitchen  making  wooden  soles  for  slippers. 

On  Saturday  evenings  the  peasants  all  went  down  to  the  village, 
returning  to  the  mountain  on  Monday  mornings.  I  spent  an  occa- 
sional week  end  at  San  Lorenzo,  but  usually  I  remained  at  Cornighe 
with  Marget,  who  considered  it  her  duty  to  stay  and  take  care  of  us. 

Rosina  did  not  like  me  staying  on  the  mountain,  I  soon  under- 
stood that.  When  I  had  been  there  a  fortnight,  she  thought  it  was 
time  that  I  came  back  to  her.  And  when  time  passed  on  and  not  a 
word  was  said  of  my  return,  she  tried  to  force  me  to  come  back.  It 


HAYMAKERS  177 

had  been  arranged  that  Riccardo  should  come  every  third  or  fourth 
day  with  my  food  and  post,  and  Rosina  was  supposed  to  send  up 
what  I  had  written  on  the  list  Riccardo  took  down  to  her.  Rosina 
became  very  slack  in  sending  up  supplies.  She  forgot  things.  She 
said  others  were  not  to  be  had,  and  sent  up  no  substitutes  as  had  been 
arranged.  Riccardo  brought  up  meat  which  was  not  fit  to  eat.  As 
for  bread,  she  sent  it  four  or  five  rolls  short,  charging  me  full  weight, 
of  course.  I  grew  thin  on  the  mountain. 

It  was  exasperating,  but  what  could  I  do?  It  would  never  do  to 
quarrel  with  Rosina,  who  had  an  ever  ready  supply  of  plausible 
excuses. 

Rosina  had  come  to  think  she  was  quite  indispensable  to  my 
existence,  and  she  did  not  like  this  independence  on  my  part.  The 
Di  Marchesis  were  not  her  friends.  She  knew  they  despised  her,  and 
she  feared  I  might  hear  things  about  her,  and  her  conscience  was 
no  doubt  uneasy.  She  didn't  know  whether  I  had  heard  anything  or 
how  much.  .  .  .  She  didn't  know  whether  I  had  found  out  that  she 
had  been  overcharging  me.  There  was  that  matter  of  the  twopenny 
eggs.  She  had  had  the  face  to  ask  Marget  to  sell  me  eggs  at  that 
price,  so  that  she  should  not  be  exposed,  saying,  as  an  excuse,  that 
the  signora  had  plenty  of  money,  and  would  pay.  Marget  had 
characteristically  replied  that  she  wasn't  a  thief. 

Very  few  visitors  came  to  Cornighe.  Once  a  bearded  gentleman 
passed  by,  who  was  out  for  the  day,  and  sometimes  relations  who  were 
visiting  peasants  in  Campia,  would  spend  a  day  on  the  mountain. 
We  walked  about  between  the  showers,  seeing  some  one  at  work 
here — some  one  there,  and  usually  stopping  to  pass  on  the  news.  It 


i;8  AMONG   ITALIAN   PEASANTS 

was  almost  a  duty  to  talk  to  the  cowmen.  They  had  been  on  the 
mountain  for  nearly  five  months  without  a  day  off.  They  were  all 
tanned  with  the  sun,  had  gold  rings  in  their  ears,  and  friendly  blue 
eyes. 

The  first  time  I  spoke  to  one  of  them  we  were  skirting  the  beech- 
trees  of  the  summit.  Three  of  the  cowmen  were  stretched  on  the 
grass,  apparently  asleep,  some  distance  below  us.  We  passed  on, 
but  looking  back  I  noticed  one  of  them  had  got  up  and,  walking  up 
the  slope,  had  crossed  our  path  and  vanished  beneath  the  trees.  I 
was  a  little  surprised  that  he  had  not  come  near  enough  to  hail  us. 
But  he  was  not  so  clumsy  as  to  show  his  curiosity  in  so  obvious 
a  way. 

We  continued  along  the  path  under  the  tall  trees,  and,  just  as 

• 

I  had  dismissed  the  cowman  from  my  mind,  there  he  was — straight 
ahead,  walking  leisurely  towards  us.  Thus  our  meeting  had  the 
appearance  of  a  charming  accident. 

One  wet  afternoon,  when  I  was  alone  at  Cornighe  with  my  little 
girl,  one  of  the  cowmen  knocked  at  the  door,  and  asked  whether  he 
might  come  in  and  dry  himself.  I  made  a  big  blaze  for  him,  but  he 
was  not  well  satisfied  with  it,  for  he  helped  himself  freely  to  Marget's 
wood,  which  he  piled  on  to  the  fire,  talking  continually  the  while. 
He  had  obviously  had  too  much  wine.  I  looked  at  him,  a  little 
anxiously,  but  his  blue  eyes  reassured  me.  They  were  so  kind  and 
free  from  evil.  He  stood  by  the  fire  holding  out  his  hands  and  telling 
me  all  about  the  affairs  of  the  cattle-farm,  the  wet  steaming  from  his 
trousers.  He  wore  a  bright  blue  cotton  blouse,  with  short,  rather  full 
sleeves,  gathered  in  a  band  above  the  elbow.  He  was  very  proud 
of  that  blouse,  and  began  to  tell  me  all  about  its  good  points.  He 


HAYMAKERS  179 

unfastened  it  at  the  throat  and  insisted  on  my  feeling  how  thick  the 
material  was.  He  assured  me  that  it  was  waterproof,  and  it  was 
certain  that  no  rain  had  penetrated  it,  for  it  was  quite  dry  on  the  inner 
side.  It  was  thick  and  closely  woven,  and  I  believe  very  expensive. 

Having  warmed  himself,  and  feeling  a  little  drier,  he  concentrated 
his  attentions  on  my  little  girl.  He  took  her  in  his  arms,  kissed  her, 
and  bounced  her  up  to  the  ceiling  and  down  again,  and  the  little 
one,  having  found  a  friend  after  her  own  heart,  shrieked  with  delight. 
She  ran  to  the  corner  to  fetch  her  doll  to  show  him.  He  took  the 
much  cherished  Christine  tenderly  in  his  arms,  pretended  she  was  a 
baby,  and  rocked  her  to  sleep.  The  little  girl  danced  round  him  in 
glee.  Together  they  routed  out  the  old  cardboard  box  which  served 
as  Christine's  cradle,  and  sitting  down  on  the  floor  together,  put  her 
to  bed.  They  tucked  her  in  with  the  piece  of  paper  which  served 
as  blanket,  and  the  cowman  sang  a  lullaby.  Having  assured  themselves 
that  Christine  was  fast  asleep,  they  got  up  and  had  another  romp. 
The  cowman  swung  her  round  and  put  her  on  his  shoulder,  and  held 
her  upside  down  and  tumbled  her  about.  I  watched  without  anxiety. 
Never  have  I  seen  a  man  handle  a  child  with  more  care  or  tenderness. 

It  had  stopped  raining.  The  cowman  picked  up  his  staff,  and 
made  a  few  more  remarks  about  the  good  qualities  of  his  blouse. 
Then  kissing  the  little  one  again,  he  bade  us  good-bye. 

One  evening,  when  sketching  close  to  La  Pallina,  I  cut  my  finger 
rather  badly,  so  quickly  gathering  up  my  things,  I  went  to  the  hut 
hoping  to  find  Teresina  in. 

She  was  there,  together  with  Battisti,  preparing  the  evening 
soup,  and  Nino  had  just  come  in  from  the  day's  work. 


i8o  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

I  asked  Teresina  for  some  cold  water,  but  she  busied  herself  with 
other  things. 

'Please,  Teresina,'  I  repeated,  'a  little  cold  water  to  stop  the 
bleeding.' 

Teresina  did  not  reply. 

'Teresina,'  I  said,  'you  have  no  heart.' 

'Signora,'  she  answered  seriously,  'signora,  if  you  demand  the 
water  I  will  give  it  you — but  you  know — it  means  certain  death ! ' 

I  pondered. 

'What  do  you  do,'  I  asked,  'when  you  cut  yourself?' 

'Never  put  it  into  water,'  said  Teresina,  'but  tie  it  up  with  a  clean 
rag,  which  must  not  be  taken  off  until  the  cut  is  healed.  I  will  give 
you  a  rag.' 

She  fetched  a  piece  of  clean  linen,  and  set  Nino  to  bandage  my 
finger. 

There  was  not  much  room  inside  the  hut,  which  measured  about 
eight  feet  by  eleven.  One  corner  was  taken  up  by  the  two  bunks, 
one  above  the  other,  sailor  fashion.  Great  big  bunks  they  were,  as 
large  as  double  beds,  the  bedclothes  neatly  arranged  on  the  hay,  and 
pink  covers  on  the  pillows.  Nino,  his  wife,  and  child  occupied  the 
lower  bunk,  Marco,  the  signer's  cowman,  slept  in  the  higher.  A  wide 
shelf,  the  height  of  a  table,  ran  along  the  whole  of  one  side,  with  a 
little  window  over  it.  The  fireplace  was  by  the  door. 

The  signer  kept  several  cows,  which  were  brought  to  graze  on  the 
mountain  during  the  summer  months.  Marco  had  entire  charge  of 
them.  He  milked  them  and  made  the  butter.  The  signer  could  not 
have  been  very  particular  about  the  milk,  for  it  was  kept  in  pans  on 
the  wide  shelf  in  the  hut.  Every  sort  of  accident  happened  to  that 


HAYMAKERS  181 

milk.  Things  got  dropped  into  it,  dust  fell  into  it  and  pieces  of  hay, 
in  spite  of  Marco's  care.  He  did  his  best,  but  how  could  the  milk 
be  kept  clean  in  that  tiny  place,  where  four  people  slept  and  did 
their  cooking? 

However,  there  is  a  limit  to  all  things,  and  Marco  was  justly 
incensed  at  Nino's  behaviour  the  night  before.  Had  I  seen  the  hole 
in  the  wall,  he  asked,  coming  in  with  the  milk  pail — up  there  in  the 
corner  above  the  milk  pans?  Nino  had  done  that. 

'  He  saw  a  mouse  there/  continued  Marco,  '  and  taking  his  gun  he 
fired  at  it,  like  a  madman,  in  this  tiny  place.  The  plaster  flew  all 
over  the  place — ostia — of  course  into  the  milk  ! ' 

Nino,  who  had  just  tied  my  finger,  said  in  an  undertone  :  '  I  hit 
the  mouse.'  That  was  all  he  cared  about. 

'A  nice  job  I  had,  straining  the  milk  and  getting  it  clean  again,' 
Marco  went  on.  He  didn't  quite  know  whether  to  be  angry  or  amused 
at  Nino. 

'Why  does  the  signer  keep  the  milk  in  here?'  I  asked. 

'I  should  like  to  know  why  he  doesn't  build  a  proper  place,'  said 
Marco,  airing  his  grievance.  'He  has  plenty  of  money.  Besides,  it 
might  be  kept  in  one  of  the  rooms  of  the  house.  You  can't  think  how 
difficult  it  is  to  keep  it  clean.  ...  I  don't  like  to  eat  the  butter 
myself ! ' 

'Oh,  they  are  fine  people,'  said  Nino  scornfully,  'they  go  to  bed 
at  midnight,  and  don't  have  breakfast  until  it's  other  folk's  dinner- 
time. Then  they  do  nothing  until  it's  their  own  dinner-time — after 
which  they  sleep  for  two  hours.  Then — sometimes — they  take  a 
promenade,  after  which  fatigue  they  rest  again.' 

'What  is  the  signer's  profession?' 
I.P.  N 


i82  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

'He's  an  engineer,'  answered  Marco,  'but  it  is  his  wife  who  has 
the  money.' 

He  had  just  strained  the  new  milk  through  a  magnificent  aluminium 
strainer,  and  ladling  some  into  a  glass  offered  it  to  me. 

'It  is  quite  clean,  signora,'  he  reassured  me,  with  a  smile.  'But 
I  must  tell  you  what  the  signor  did  yesterday,'  he  went  on,  sitting 
down  on  a  box.  '  One  of  his  big  sausages  had  gone  bad  and  wasn't 
fit  to  eat.  So  after  breakfast  he  brought  it  out  and  made  me  a  present 
of  it  with  great  condescension.  I  knew  it  was  bad,  and  didn't  want 
the  thing.  "  Thank  you,  signor,"  I  said,  "  it  will  do  nicely  for  the 
dog."  .  .  .  Surely,  signora,  if  it  is  not  fit  for  him  to  eat,  it  is  not 
fit  for  me  either?' 

'The  signori  think  anything  is  good  enough  for  us'  exclaimed 
Nino  bitterly. 

'  But  what  did  the  signor  say  when  you  answered  him  like  that  ? ' 
I  asked. 

'  He  said  nothing,  signora,  but  he  drew  himself  up  like  this — and 
marched  off.' 

'  If  the  Italian  signori  were  like  you,'  said  Nino,  who  was  washing 
his  hands  in  a  corner,  'things  would  be  different.  You  are  three 
times  more  of  a  lady  than  all  the  signori  put  together,  and  six  times 
as  intelligent.  Do  you  think  they  ever  speak  to  us  as  you  do?' 

'But  they  aren't  all  like  the  signor  up  there,'  I  protested. 

"There  are  a  few  who  are  kind-hearted,  I  know,'  he  answered, 
'but  all  the  same.  .  .  .  Do  you  remember  yesterday,  when  I  called 
you  stupid  because  you  didn't  understand  what  I  was  talking  about  ? ' 

'It  was  I  who  said  it,'  I  answered,  'I  said  "how  stupid  of  me 
not  to  understand."  ' 


HAYMAKERS  183 

'Yes/  said  Nino,  'and  I  answered,  "  Yes,  you  are  stupid."  I've 
been  thinking  ever  since  of  my  audacity.  Do  you  think  I  would 
ever  dare  say  such  a  thing  to  an  Italian  signora?  I  don't  know  what 
would  happen  if  I  did — I  really  don't !' 

'You'd  be  lectured  and  kicked  out,'  said  Marco,  'and  your  char- 
acter would  be  entirely  gone.' 

"  The  insolence  of  these  peasants,"  '  began  Nino,  '  "  here  is  a 
man  who  actually  called  a  lady  stupid — because  she  was  .  .  .'  " 

'Put  him  in  jail  and  fine  him,'  cried  Marco  gaily. 

Teresina  had  ladled  the  soup  into  bowls,  and  stood  wondering 
what  was  going  to  be  said  next. 

'It  is  a  good  thing  the  signora  takes  it  in  such  good  part,'  she 
said.  'Will  you  eat  with  us?' 

'No,  thanks,  I  must  be  going.' 

'You  never  will  have  anything,'  she  said.  'But  before  you  go 
back  to  England  you  will  have  dinner  with  us — won't  you?  Nino 
will  shoot  the  birds,  and  we'll  have  polenta  and  birds — but  not  yet. 
It  must  be  later  on,  when  one  is  allowed  to  shoot  them.' 

'Why,'  I  said,  'you  had  birds  for  dinner  yesterday.  Don't  deny 
it — I  saw  them  myself.' 

'One  mustn't  say  such  things,'  she  whispered. 

'No,  I'll  send  the  police  after  you  one  of  these  days/  I  retorted, 
'and  not  only  will  they  find  the  birds,  but  all  the  wine  you  keep  up 
here  and  sell  to  the  cowmen 

'And  I'll  do  it  as  long  as  the  cowmen  pay  me  for  it.  Won't  you 
drink  a  glass  before  you  go  ? '  she  asked,  grinning  all  over. 

'Signora/  she  called  after  me,  as  I  went  home  up  the  path,  'don't 
forget — the  rag  must  not  be  taken  off  your  finger  for  two  or  three  days.' 


1 84  AMONG   ITALIAN   PEASANTS 

It  was  nearly  dark  when  I  reached  Cornighe.  The  Di  Marchesis 
had  just  finished  supper  and  were  talking  with  more  animation  than 
usual. 

It  was  all  about  Dominica  and  the  signer. 

Giacom  explained.  'Dominica  asked  the  signor  for  permission 
to  stay  hi  the  little  hut  called  Manner.  She  wants  to  be  on  the 
mountain  for  a  few  weeks  with  her  husband  and  her  friend  and 
Teschini,  and  as  Manner  stands  empty  she  thought  she  could  stay 
there.  He  has  refused.' 

Manner  was  a  hut  smaller  than  La  Pallina,  but  with  the  most 
enormous  bunks  in  it,  stretching  from  wall  to  wall.  Fifteen  people, 
I  am  told,  once  slept  there.  It  stood  on  the  land  belonging  to  the 
signer's  wife,  and  was  used  by  the  peasants  cutting  the  hay  for  the 
commune.  For  although  the  lands  belonged  to  the  lady,  the  commune 
had  a  right  to  the  hay.  Tona  and  his  father  had  just  finished  hay- 
making, so  the  hut  was  unoccupied. 

'But  why  has  he  refused?'  I  asked. 

They  shrugged  their  shoulders  and  implied  that  it  was  cussedness. 

'The  only  reason  I  can  think  of,'  said  Giacom,  'is  that  three 
years  ago,  Dominica's  brother — Bigi — had  a  misunderstanding  with 
the  signor.  It  was  about  some  wood  the  signor  said  Bigi  might  take, 
and  the  signor  afterwards  denied  it,  and  called  Bigi  a  thief.  It  was 
only  about  an  armful  of  wood.  As  if  Bigi  would  steal ! ' 

'But  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  Dominica,'  I  said,  'who  has  not 
lived  at  home  for  at  least  eight  years  ? ' 

"There  is  no  other  reason  why  he  should  refuse,'  said  Marget. 
-  Giacom  had  taken  a  newspaper  from  the  shelf  a*nd,  straightening 
it  out  on  the  table,  read  aloud  to  us.    He  translated  the  more  difficult 


HAYMAKERS  185 

passages  into  the  dialect,  or  else  explained  them  to  his  mother.  He 
was  particularly  fond  of  reading  out  paragraphs  in  which  priests 
figured  to  their  detriment.  He  did  this,  he  explained,  in  order  that 
the  womenfolk  should  be  shaken  in  their  idea  that  a  priest  could  do 
no  wrong. 

'There  are  good  and  bad  priests,'  he  told  me,  'and  I  have  nothing 
against  them  as  long  as  they  leave  our  women  alone.  Ah,  here's  some- 
thing about  England' — and  he  read  out  a  little  paragraph  about  the 
suffragettes.  It  led  to  a  number  of  questions,  and  I  told  them  about 
the  suffrage  movement  in  England,  especially  the  militants,  and  they 
listened,  thrilled.  Marget  grew  quite  excited.  Her  sympathies  were 
with  the  militants.  They  were  ladies  after  her  own  heart.  To  think 
that  women  were  in  revolt  at  last !  She  itched  to  be  off  to  London 
with  a  broomstick.  Angelina's  rebellious  eyes  glowed,  and  even  her 
red-haired  sister-in-law  was  stirred.  Giacom,  to  my  surprise,  was 
immensely  impressed.  His  sense  of  justice  was  evidently  greater 
than  his  sense  of  law  and  order.  He  would  willingly  have  given 
every  woman  a  vote.  He  saw  the  cause  was  just  and  did  not  condemn 
the  means. 

I  found  the  same  to  be  the  case  when  I  had  discussed  the 
suffrage  with  Bortolo.  He  firmly  believed  in  votes  for  women,  and 
had  done  so  long  before  I  knew  him.  How  different  was  the  opinion 
of  the  signer,  with  whom  I  once  chanced  to  have  a  conversation, 
whilst  sheltering  from  a  thunderstorm.  He  asked  me  as  a  favour  to 
tell  him  about  the  suffragettes.  We  discussed  them  at  great  length, 
and  when  I  went  home,  he  bowed  and  politely  told  me  that  he  still 
thought  them  unwomanly  and  hoped  never  to  meet  one.  As  for  giving 
a  woman  a  vote,  not  he  ! 


1 86  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

Angelina,  sitting  on  the  floor  in  her  usual  place,  was  staring  at 
the  flickering  lamp  wick.  It  is  all  very  well,  she  was  thinking,  to 
demand  one's  rights  of  men  but  how  could  one  successfully  revolt 
against  a  tyrannical  mother? 

Giacom,  who  had  been  unlacing  his  boots,  took  them  off  and  put 
them  down  by  his  chair.  Then,  getting  up  as  if  he  were  going  to 
bed,  he  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  room  and  began  to  speak.  He 
told  us  of  what  he  had  seen  at  Milan  as  a  carabiniere,  and  in  strong 
language  denounced  brothels,  and  the  sort  of  men  that  frequent  such 
places — and  about  the  diseases.  ...  It  was  very  splendid  of  him  to 
attack  his  own  sex  in  that  way,  and  what  he  said  was  just  and  right. 
But  he  left  us  womenfolk  rather  breathless. 

'Giacom  likes  to  talk,'  said  his  red-haired  wife,  half  apologetically. 

But  it  was  not  only  talking.  Giacom  had  convictions  and  high 
ideals  that  commanded  respect. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

HAILSTONES 

IT  had  been  feebly  thundering  all  the  afternoon,  but  this  was  of  such 
daily  occurrence  that  I  paid  little  heed  to  it.  It  was  with  a  look  of 
surprise,  therefore,  that  I  greeted  the  Di  Marchesis,  who  returned  to 
the  hut  earlier  than  usual. 

"There  will  be  a  storm,'  said  Gioan,  in  answer  to  my  look  of 
inquiry. 

Angelina  came  in  with  a  large  bundle  of  firewood,  followed  by 
the  red-haired  woman  carrying  rakes.  Giacom,  who  had  hung  his 
scythe  in  the  rowan-tree  outside,  came  in  spattered  with  rain.  Large 
drops  were  falling  heavily.  Marget  was  down  in  the  stable  shutting 
the  goats  and  hens  in.  She  came  in,  shaking  the  rain  off  her  clothes, 
and  sat  down  in  her  accustomed  place  on  the  hearthstone,  but  she 
did  not  take  up  her  knitting. 

The  clouds  looked  very  threatening  on  all  sides.  We  waited, 
anxious  and  silent.  Gioan  crossed  to  the  kitchen  window  and  stood 
leaning  out.  Angelina  went  to  the  pantry  window.  Giacom  and  his 
wife  went  upstairs  to  the  bedroom. 

The  rain  stopped  falling.  An  unexpected  breeze  shook  the  trees 
and  died  down  to  a  breathless  hush. 

We  waited. 

187 


1 88  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

Over  Monte  Moro  was  a  strip  of  blue  sky  narrowing  between  two 
dark  clouds.  As  they  merged  into  one  the  storm  broke  with  great 
violence  high  over  our  heads.  There  came  flash  upon  flash  of  lightning, 
and  the  thunder  crashed  and  murmured  and  crashed  again.  It  was 
terrifying.  On  a  height  to  the  north  was  another  thunderstorm,  and 
a  third  one  on  Monte  Moro,  from  which  the  thunder  had  a  distinct 
hollow  sound,  as  if  it  came  from  caverns,  and  out-boomed  even  our 
own  storm. 

Rain  fell  in  torrents,  and  it  grew  dark. 

Some  mist  blew  across  and  hid  Monte  Moro,  and  the  little  strip 
of  lake  we  could  see,  and  the  heights  of  our  own  mountain.  Then 
things  close  by  grew  indistinct. 

'Santo  Dio,'  murmured  Marget,  rocking  herself  to  and  fro.  She 
never  glanced  at  the  window,  but  sat  staring  at  the  wall  with  wide 
open  eyes.  No  one  else  spoke  or  moved. 

Presently  tiny  hailstones  came  down  with  the  rain,  just  a  few  at 
first — and  then  more  and  more.  The  thicker  they  fell  the  larger  they 
grew!  Down  they  came,  hammering  against  the  closed  door  and 
bouncing  high  on  the  grass. 

We  stood  watching,  eager  for  a  break  in  the  mist.  We  could  see 
nothing  but  the  flashes,  and  the  nearest  trees,  and  that  the  ground 
was  getting  white. 

'Santo  Dio,'  murmured  the  old  woman  again. 

Had  the  storm  travelled  as  far  as  Campia?  The  question  was 
in  our  hearts,  but  we  dared  not  put  it  into  words.  If  it  had — it  would 
be  dreadful. 

Giacom  came  downstairs,  and  opening  the  door,  went  out.  The 
hail  was  still  falling  and  bounding  down  the  slopes.  He  picked  up 


HAILSTONES  189 

a  few  of  the  largest  hailstones.  They  were  as  large  as  my  watch  and 
the  same  shape. 

The  thunder  kept  on;  and  Monte  Moro  still  boomed  that  fearful 
deep  note,  but  the  flashes  grew  less.  The  mist  cleared  a  little,  and  we 
could  see  as  far  as  the  signer's  house.  The  grass  was  white  every- 
where, and  on  the  ground,  beneath  each  tree  and  bush,  lay  thickly 
scattered  the  leaves  which  the  hail  had  broken  off.  Two  figures  came 
out  of  the  signer's  house  and  walked  across  to  the  little  chapel.  They 
were  Nino  and  Faustino.  The  village  was  not  visible  from  there — 
it  was  a  long  walk  to  any  of  the  points  from  which  it  could  be  seen, 
but  perhaps  it  relieved  their  minds  to  go  out  and  try  to  look 
down.  .  .  . 

The  thunder  died  down  to  a  whisper,  rose  again,  stopped,  rolled 
faintly,  and  then  came  loudly  from  another  height,  where  a  fresh 
storm  had  broken  out.  The  hail  stopped  falling  and  was  followed  by 
a  deluge  of  rain  which  calmed  to  a  steady  downpour.  Nino  and 
Faustino  must  have,  been  drenched. 

It  suddenly  became  very  cold.  .  .  . 

Angelina  lit  the  fire,  and  the  women  prepared  the  evening  soup. 
We  were  all  very  thoughtful.  It  was  no  good  pretending  the  storm 
had  not  reached  the  village — we  knew  it  must  have.  How  much 
harm  had  it  done  then  ?  Had  it  been  as  violent  there  or  had  it  spent 
itself  on  the  mountain?  We  couldn't  tell,  and  we  didn't  discuss  it. 
When  we  spoke  it  was  to  laugh  and  joke,  and  I  could  not  have  told 
what  was  in  the  minds  of  the  Di  Marchesis  if  I  had  not  seen  their 
eyes.  They  were  bright,  hard,  and  angry.  With  such  eyes  they  joked. 
Then  affecting  indifference,  they  went  to  bed  half  an  hour  earlier 
than  usual. 


igo  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

My  own  impulse  would  have  been  to  run  down  to  the  village  at 
once  and  make  certain  of  what  had  happened.  But  none  of  them 
dreamt  of  doing  such  a  thing,  nor  did  any  of  the  other  peasants  at 
work  on  the  mountain.  It  was  Thursday,  and  not  until  the  usual 
hour  on  Saturday  did  any  one  go  down  to  the  village. 

•  •••••• 

Near  the  signer's  house  I  found  Nino  and  Faustino.  Nino  was 
sitting  on  the  grass  beating  his  scythe  with  a  hammer,  and  scarcely 
glanced  at  me. 

Faustino  stopped  mowing. 

'  Si'ora ! '  he  called,  in  an  attitude  of  tearing  his  hair,  '  draw  me 
like  this!' 

'With  hailstones  all  round  you,'  I  called  back. 

He  wiped  his  forehead  and  grinned. 

'You  saw  it?'  he  asked,  knowing  I  had  been  a  little  incredulous. 

'Yes,'  I  answered,  'but  I  can't  believe  it  has  done  so  much  harm 
when  I  see  you  laughing.' 

'Would  you  have  me  cry ? '  Then  seriously,  with  those  hard  eyes  : 
'Si'ora,  if  it  has  been  as  bad  as  they  say,  if  it  really  has  been  so  bad, 
then  the  storm  has  destroyed  everything — sacramento,  everything. 
All  our  work  will  have  been  for  nothing — sacramento.  To-morrow  I 
go  down  and  will  see  it  for  myself.  But  I  tell  you,  Si'ora,  if  it  is  true, 
and  everything  has  been  ruined,  then  I  will  climb  right  up  into  the 
belfry,  and  chuck  all  the  bells  down  into  the  piazza  1 ' 

'And  the  priest  after  them?'  I  suggested. 

"The  priest — ah,  it  is  they  that  are  at  fault — they  are  wicked — 
lying — it  is  they  who  bring  this  upon  us ' 

'But  Faustino,'  I  cried,  remembering  that  quite  lately  he  had, 


HAILSTONES  191 

by  a  clever  manoeuvre  appropriated  a  whole  lot  of  the  signer's  best 
hay,  'surely  your  sins  also  count?' 

'How  can  we  be  good  if  the  priest  sets  us  such  an  example?' 
asked  Faustino. 

Nino,  who  had  not  yet  spoken,  looked  up  at  us. 

"The  priest,'  he  said  with  emphasis,  relapsing  into  his  one  English 
phrase,  'is  "  the  son  of  a  bitch."  He  had  that  same  hard  angry 
look  in  his  dark  eyes  which  the  others  had  had. 

Teresina,  followed  by  a  goat,  came  and  joined  us.  She  had  met 
Stefen  on  the  road,  and  was  full  of  the  news. 

'It  is  quite  true,'  she  said,  'the  hail  came  down  everywhere — 
he  said  it  was  pretty  bad  at  Campia  itself,  but  was  worst  by  the 
fontana  and  on  the  Ridge  of  Houses.  At  San  Lorenzo  it  came  down 
like  hell  and  spoilt  everything.  The  grapes  are  all  on  the  ground,  and 
so  are  the  olives — and  the  beans.' 

Nino  got  to  his  feet  and  laughed.  Then,  raising  his  arm  above 
his  head,  he  cried  loudly  across  the  hills  : — 

'  America — America  ! ' 

We  all  stood  and  looked  at  him. 

'How  about  those  who  cannot  get  away  to  America?'  I  asked. 

'It  is  easier  for  others  than  for  me,'  he  answered  hotly,  thinking 
of  his  defect.  Both  eyes  blazed  savagely.  How  he  hated  America. 

'Stefen  said  that  Bigi  said,'  went  on  Teresina,  'that  it  is  high 
time  all  the  images  were  taken  from  the  church  and  packed  on 
donkeys  and  sent  away.  .  .  .' 

.  ..».«• 

'I'd  like  to  get  some  dynamite  and  blow  up  the  whole  rubbish 
heap,  church  and  all,'  said  Giacom,  as  he  sat  down  to  supper,  'and 


i92  AMONG   ITALIAN   PEASANTS 

send  the  priest  somewhere  where  he  need  not  trouble  about 
shaving/ 

'I  suppose  you  saw  Riccardo?'  I  asked.  The  boy  had  been  up 
with  some  things  for  me. 

'We  saw  Riccardo/  said  Giacom  significantly. 

'He  was  the  first  to  bring  us  news  of  the  village,'  said  Gioan, 
leaning  against  the  wall,  and  staring  up  at  the  ceiling. 

'He  told  us/  blurted  out  Angelina,  'that  very  little  hail  had 
fallen,  and  that  at  San  Lorenzo  the  damage  had  been  slight — insig- 
nificant/ 

'Whatever  put  it  into  his  head  to  say  that? '  I  asked,  with  surprise, 
'why,  he  told  me  just  the  opposite/ 

'Riccardo  is  a  liar/  observed  Marget. 

'Afterwards  we  saw  Stefen/  said  Angelina,  'and  it  is  even  worse 
than  we  feared.  There  has  been  no  such  storm  since  '8i/ 

"They  say  Bortolo  is  insured/  said  Gioan. 

'And  so  is  Biscotti ' 

'And  you?'  I  asked. 

'I?'  asked  Giacom,  'what  would  you  have  me  insure?  My 
trousers?  The  little  scrap  of  land  that  /  possess ' 

He  bent  down  to  take  off  his  boots,  and  went  up  to  bed  singing 
a  song  so  blasphemous  that  the  women  suppressed  him. 

I  saw  the  devastated  terraces  of  Campia  and  walked  down  the 
road  past  the  fontana  to  San  Lorenza.  Everywhere  the  same  miserable 
spectacle.  Half-naked  vines  with  withered  leaves  scattered  round 
about,  grapes  on  the  ground,  often  whole  bunches  of  them.  The 
edges  of  the  torn  and  perforated  leaves,  still  left  on  the  plants,  were 


HAILSTONES  193 

turning  brown  and  every  grape  that  had  been  hit  by  a  hailstone  showed 
its  bruise.  The  maize  plants  were  broken,  and  the  long  leaves  hung 
in  ribbons,  as  if  they  had  been  combed.  All  the  plants  had  the  most 
bedraggled  appearance.  In  places  the  road  was  thick  with  olive 
leaves  and  little  black  olives. 

All  this  havoc  had  been  done  in  ten  minutes,  if,  indeed,  the  storm 
had  lasted  as  long  as  that,  and  the  peasants  had  stood  watching, 
utterly  helpless.  One  old  man  had  wrung  his  hands  and  burst  into 
tears,  the  others  had  watched  with  hard  eyes  and  firmly  closed  lips. 
Why  did  God  send  these  storms?  they  asked,  hadn't  everything  been 
done  that  could  be  done  ?  Hadn't  the  Madonna  been  carried  through 
the  streets?  It  was  certain  that  God  was  not  at  fault,  it  must  be  the 
church  then  that  was  responsible  for  this,  the  church  and  the  saints 
and  the  priests.  The  male  population  of  Campia  swore  and  blasphemed 
with  flashing  eyes,  and  the  women  listened,  awestruck,  always  ready 
to  join  in  when  they  laughed  in  despair. 

I  felt  I  would  not  like  to  be  in  the  priest's  shoes  at  this  crisis. 


CHAPTER  XV 

BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE 

ANGELINA  and  I  were  walking  together. 

'Have  you  heard  from  Raimondo  again?'  I  asked  her. 

'Yes,'  she  replied,  without  enthusiasm,  'I  have  at  last  heard 
from  Raimondo  again.' 

'And  .  .  .?' 

'And,  signora?  He  has  sent  money  to  Biscotti  to  pay  for  his 
ticket  to  America  ! '  She  seemed  quite  angry. 

'Has  he  already  saved  so  much?'  I  asked.  'But  that  was  very 
nice  of  him.' 

'Nice?'  repeated  Angelina,  'yes,  very  nice  for  Biscotti,  but  not 
for  me.' 

'  Did  you  want  him  to  send  you  a  ticket  ? ' 

'Oh,  no,  signora,  but  I  have  a  quarrel  with  Biscotti.  None  of 
us  have  anything  to  do  with  him  any  more.  Raimondo  had  quarrelled 
with  him,  but  they  made  it  up  before  he  left.  But  7  will  never  make 
it  up,  nor  talk  to  Biscotti  again — never.  .  .  .  Should  I  like  it,  then, 
that  Raimondo  lends  him  money  ? ' 

'I  think  it  was  very  nice  of  him.' 

Angelina  kept  her  own  opinion  on  the  subject.  She  was  not 
altogether  satisfied  with  Raimondo.  He  did  not  write  often  enough 

to  please  her,  and  she  was  more  exacting  than  she  should  have  been. 

194 


BIRDS   OF  PASSAGE  195 

The  fact  was  Raimondo  could  hardly  write,  and  to  concoct  a  letter 
was  a  slow  and  inky-fingered  business  which  one  could  hardly  expect 
him  to  indulge  in  often.  One  quarter  of  what  he  wrote  was  wholly 
unintelligible.  Bigi  or  Nino  would  sometimes  bring  one  of  his  letters 
to  me  in  despair,  asking  whether  the  incomprehensible  words  might 
not  be  the  English  with  which  he  interlarded  his  conversation.  But 
I  was  not  of  much  help,  my  knowledge  of  American  expletives  being 
limited,  and  of  course  Raimondo  spelt  phonetically,  according  to 
his  own  pronunciation.  For  instance,  'gutbai'  meant  good-bye, 
and  'orait'  meant  all  right.  .  .  . 

'  I  don't  believe  you  will  ever  many  Raimondo/  I  said  to  Angelina, 
feeling,  perhaps,  that  it  might  be  a  good  thing  for  Raimondo  if  she 
did  not.  She  seemed  so  bent  on  finding  fault  with  him. 

'I  shall  and  I  shall,'  she  answered,  'that's  certain.' 

We  walked  on  for  a  bit  in  silence. 

Presently  she  said,  pointing  :  'All  last  summer  Raimondo  stayed 
in  that  little  hut  by  the  pink  villa,  haymaking.' 

'Then  I  suppose  you  saw  a  good  deal  of  him?'  I  asked. 

'During  the  whole  tune  I  only  spoke  to  him  twice — my  mother 
would  not  let  me.' 

'But  you  got  over  that?'  I  suggested. 

'No,  signora,  my  mother  always  beat  me.  .  .  .' 

We  stooped  to  gather  the  edible  fungi  growing  along  the  path. 
Angelina  carried  them  in  her  apron.  She  walked  along,  singing 
loudly,  then  suddenly  stopped  and  looked  at  me. 

'Go  on,'  I  said. 

'But,  signora,  I  shouldn't  have  sung  it  when  I  was  with 
you.' 


ig6  AMONG   ITALIAN   PEASANTS 

'You  know  I  don't  mind/  I  reassured  her.     'Why,  I'm  one  of 
the  "porchi  signori  "  myself.    Go  on,  I  want  to  learn  the  song.' 
This  is  what  Angelina  sang  : — 

'Por  paesa 
El  ghia  en  polastrel 
Chei  porchi  di  quei  si'ori 
I  ga  mangia  anche  quell. 
Quei  porchi  di  quei  si'ori 
Noi  sa  pio  che  far, 
I  mars  i  bicicletta 
A  forza  de  robar.' 

(Translation.) 
'A  poor  peasant 
Had  a  chicken, 
Those  pigs  of  signori 
Have  eaten  it  as  well. 
Those  pigs  of  signori, 
We  don't  know  what  they  are  at. 
They  ride  on  bicycles 
Bought  with  stolen  wealth.' 

'Now  sing  "  Quando  Sard  in  America." 

'O  can  giovanotti 
Domani  dobbiamo  partire, 
A  costa  di  morire 


BIRDS   OF  PASSAGE  197 

In  America  voglio  andar. 
Quando  sard  in  America, 
Quando  saro  in  America, 
Quando  sard  in  America, 
L'amante  la  qui  sterro. 
Quando  avro  qui  stato, 
Quando  avro  qui  stato, 
Quando  avro  qui  stato, 
In  Italia  riturnerd 
Quando  saro  in  Italia, 
Quando  sard  in  Italia, 
Quando  saro  in  Italia, 
L'amante  la  sposero. 
Quando  avro  sposato, 
Quando  avrd  sposato. 
Quando  avro  sposato, 
In  America  turnero.' 

(Translation.) 
'Oh,  dear  boys  and  girls, 
To-morrow  we  must  part, 
Rather  than  starve  here 
I  must  go  to  America. 
When  I  am  in  America, 
When  I  am  in  America, 
When  I  am  in  America, 
I  leave  my  darling  here. 
After  I  have  been  there, 
I.P. 


198  AMONG   ITALIAN   PEASANTS 

After  I  have  been  there, 
After  I  have  been  there, 
I  will  come  back  again. 
When  I  am  back  in  Italy, 
.  When  I  am  back  in  Italy, 
When  I  am  back  in  Italy, 
My  darling  I  will  wed. 
But  after  we  are  married, 
But  after  we  are  married, 
But  after  we  are  married, 
I  must  go  back  to  America.' 

We  neared  Cornighe  as  she  sang.  The  song  had  a  beautiful 
melody.  I  do  not  know  who  wrote  it,  it  sounded  as  old  as  the  hills, 
and  it  must  have  been  composed  by  some  one  who  knew  and  loved 
the  mountains.  The  whole  spirit  of  the  place  was  concentrated  in 

those  few  bars. 

•  •••••• 

During  September  the  weather  became  worse,  if  that  was  possible, 
and  it  was  almost  always  hazy.  Very  few  peasants  were  on  the 
mountain.  The  haymakers  had  returned  to  the  village  and  were 
busy  clearing  the  land  of  their  devastated  crops.  Giacom  and  his 
wife  were  back  in  Campia,  so  was  Angelina.  Nino  and  his  wife  had 
been  back  some  time.  In  a  few  weeks  the  cattle  would  be  driven 
down  to  the  valleys,  and  we  should  no  longer  be  able  to  buy  milk, 
butter,  and  cheese  on  the  mountain.  The  signor  and  his  wife  had  also 
departed,  but  the  house  did  not  stand  quite  empty.  Marco  and 
Faustino  slept  there  and  used  the  kitchen,  and  Marco  was  allowed 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE  199 

to  put  his  milk-pans  in  the  larder,  now  that  the  signer  was 
gone. 

Gioan  was  a  great  deal  at  Cornighe.  He  was  unusually  energetic, 
and  a  strange,  adventurous  light  gleamed  in  his  dark  eyes.  He  spent 
hours  among  the  bushes,  selecting  and  cutting  long,  bendy  sticks, 
which  he  brought  into  the  kitchen.  He  trimmed  and  cut  them  the 
required  length,  sitting  on  a  low  stool,  placed  so  that  he  had  a  good 
view  of  the  path.  His  alert  eye  noticed  every  passer-by,  and  his 
ears  did  not  miss  a  footfall.  He  was  afraid  of  the  guardie — because 
he  was  doing  what  he  knew  to  be  unlawful.  He  was  making  bird 
traps. 

The  traps  were  horrible,  and  I  do  not  wish  to  describe  them,  nor 
do  I  know  how  many  he  set.  There  must  have  been  hundreds  of  them. 
He  hid  them  cunningly  in  out  of  the  way  corners  amongst  the  bushes, 
sometimes  baited  with  red  rowan  berries.  I  came  across  traps  in 
all  manner  of  places.  Gioan  was  by  no  means  the  only  one  who 
set  them. 

If  the  guardie  found  any  traps,  they  either  confiscated  them  or 
else  lay  in  wait  to  see  who  came  to  look  after  them,  and  then  issued 
a  summons.  Bird  nets  were  also  confiscated.  Not  long  ago  Nino 
had  spread  one  on  his  lands  by  the  Ridge  of  Houses.  Next  morning 
the  net  was  gone.  No  one  had  seen  the  guardie,  and  Nino  was  in  two 
minds  about  its  disappearance.  It  had  been  well  hidden,  and  if  it 
wasn't  the  guardie  .  .  .  who  could  have  taken  it?  He  blamed  his 
enemies  by  turn,  but  gave  it  up  as  hopeless.  It  was  just  his  cursed 
bad  luck.  It  must  have  been  the  guardie  after  all.  But  he  couldn't 
believe  that.  On  the  other  hand,  nobody  had  ever  had  a  net  stolen 
before.  ,  .  .  It  was  a  new  net  and  a  good  one.  \Vho  on  earth  knew 


200 

he  had  hidden  it  in  that  place?  He  was  very  dejected  about  it  for 
some  time. 

Once  Gioan  had  a  bad  fright  and  came  indoors  greatly  agitated. 
He  had  seen  the  guardie.  They  had  passed  down  the  path  towards 
the  signor's  house.  ...  He  didn't  know  where  they  were  now — if  he 
only  knew  !  He  went  to  see  if  they  were  visible  from  the  upstairs 
window.  No.  They  were  nowhere  in  sight. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  wait.  Gioan  kept  indoors. 
He  never  went  near  the  traps  for  twenty-four  hours.  Then,  with  an 
unconcerned  air,  he  went  stealthily  among  the  bushes,  visiting  place 
after  place.  The  traps  were  all  there,  and  must  have  escaped  the 
vigilance  of  the  guardie. 

Gioan  caught  very  few  birds.  It  was  not  a  good  year  for  any- 
thing. The  harvest  had  been  spoilt,  the  hay  was  poor,  and  now  there 
was  a  scarcity  of  birds. 

•  •••••• 

Sometimes  Filip's  niece  passed  Cornighe  on  her  way  to  her  father's 
hut,  which  was  close  to  the  pink  villa.  She  was  a  strong,  likely 
looking  girl.  She  carried  her  basket  on  a  stick  held  over  the  shoulder, 
and  crowding  at  her  heels  were  seven  sheep  and  three  goats,  all  with 
deep-toned  tinkling  bells.  She  called  continually  to  the  animals. 
When  they  were  safely  grazing  round  her  father's  hut  she  sat  under 
the  cherry-tree  and  read  a  novel,  when  she  ought  to  have  been 
knitting  stockings.  The  animals  were  very  fond  of  her,  always 
nibbling  and  snuffling  close  by.  She  kept  a  staff  handy  to  drive 
them  off. 

One  evening  I  found  her  meditating  over  a  letter. 

'It  is  from  my  brother,'  she  explained. 


BIRDS   OF  PASSAGE  201 

'Well,  how  is  he  getting  on?'  I  asked,  knowing  that  he  had  lately 
gone  to  serve  in  the  army. 

'He  doesn't  seem  very  happy/  she  replied,  'but  please  read  it 
yourself.' 

I  took  the  letter  and  read  as  follows  : — 

'DEAREST  FATHER,— I  write  to  tell  you  that  I  have  arrived  safely 
and  am  well.  But  father,  dear,  I  must  tell  you  that  the  life  a  soldier 
leads  is  dreadful.  The  first  week  they  only  gave  us  one  meal  a  day, 
after  that  I  was  sent  to  the  infantry.  We  sleep  out  of  doors  in  our 
clothes  and  have  no  covers,  but  sleep  on  straw  mats.  Please  send  me 
more  money,  as  I  have  to  spend  it  on  food,  and  everything  is  very 
dear. 

'Your  devoted  son, 

'  LUIGI.' 

'  Do  they  only  have  one  meal  a  day  ? '  I  asked  hi  surprise,  knowing 
that  the  conscripts  were  only  paid  two  palanche  a  day. 

'  That  is  only  at  first,'  she  said,  'before  it  is  decided  which  regiments 
they  are  to  join.  But  even  then  they  only  get  two  meals  a  day- 
one  at  nine  in  the  morning  and  the  other  at  four  in  the  afternoon.' 

'He  doesn't  seem  to  like  it,'  I  said,  feeling  sorry  for  Luigi,  who 
was  a  nice  quiet  fellow. 

"The  thing  is,'  she  said,  laughing,  'that  my  brother  has  a  tre- 
mendous appetite.  .He  will  like  it  well  enough  when  he  gets  used 
to  it.' 

On  my  way  home  I  passed  her  father.  He  was  cutting  foliage, 
which  was  dried  and  given  to  the  goats  and  sheep  during  the  winter. 
Most  of  the  older  peasants  firmly  believed  that  it  should  only  be  cut 


202  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

when  the  moon  was  in  a  certain  quarter.     Marget  could  scarcely 
contain  herself  when  Giacom  callously  cut  it  at  the  wrong  time.  .  .  . 

This  evening  Marget 's  mouth  was  firmly  set,  and  I  knew  at  once 
that  something  had  happened. 

"The  goats  came  home  dry,'  she  announced,  with  an  angry  light 
in  her  eye.  'Some  one  has  milked  them.' 

'  Whoever  would  do  such  a  thing  ? '  I  asked  in  dismay. 

'I  knew  whereabouts  the  goats  have  been  this  afternoon,  and  I 
know  who  did  it.  It  was  Beppo  down  at  the  hut.  He  is  a  rascal.' 

'But  surely ' 

'Yes,  he  did.  If  the  goats  go  on  his  land  there  is  nothing  to 
prevent  him  doing  it,  he  is  in  his  right.  Only  ...  it  isn't  done.  But 
I  didn't  think  he  was  capable  of  such  a  thing.  .  .  .  What  am  I  to 
make  the  soup  of?' 

She  was  very  upset  and  all  the  more  so  because  it  was  a  thing 
which  rarely,  if  ever,  happened.  The  peasants  did  not  steal  from  each 
other.  Only  once,  in  Marget's  remembrance,  had  anything  been 
stolen  from  Filip's  lands.  On  that  occasion  a  woman  had  helped 
herself  to  a  basket  of  beans.  She  thought  herself  unobserved,  but 
Gioan  had  caught  sight  of  her  and  seen  what  she  was  at.  Nothing 
was  said,  no  one  was  told  of  it,  and  the  Di  Marchesis  kept  it  a  secret. 

A  few  days  after  the  goat  incident,  Beppo's  three  goats  came 
grazing  over  Filip's  grassland.  In  an  unostentatious  way,  Gioan 
coaxed  them  back  on  to  their  owner's  property.  But  he  never  dreamt 
of  milking  them,  a  Di  Marchesis  wouldn't. 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

The  signer  had  a  roccolo  which  Faustino  was  getting  ready. 

A  roccolo  is  a  place  for  catching  large  numbers  of  small  birds 


BIRDS   OF  PASSAGE  203 

It  is  a  privilege  of  the  wealthy,  because  it  involves  a  licence  which 
is  beyond  the  means  of  a  peasant.  All  other  traps  are  prohibited, 
and  the  peasant  is  only  entitled  to  what  he  can  shoot.  But  he  wants 
the  birds  because  he  is  hungry — for  the  signor  they  are  a  delicacy. 

Without  doubt  roccolos  ought  to  be  forbidden  altogether,  for  the 
number  of  migratory  birds  caught  in  this  way  must  be  enormous. 

It  took  Faustino  a  long  time  to  get  the  roccolo  ready.  The  place 
had  always  been  a  mystery  to  me,  and  I  had  investigated  it  several 
times  without  understanding  in  the  least  what  it  was  for.  I  will  try 
to  describe  it. 

Half-way  down  a  sparsely  wooded  slope  was  an  erection  of  poles. 
They  were  nearly  twelve  feet  high,  and  stood  in  the  ground  about  six 
feet  apart  in  a  double  row,  three  feet  between  the  rows.  The  poles 
were  connected  with  cross  poles,  one  at  the  top  and  one  half-way  down. 
The  row  was  irregularly  curved  and  very  long,  about  forty-five  yards. 
Wherever  trees  grew  close  enough,  their  boughs  were  tied  to  the 
poles  and  trained  along  them. 

Higher  up  the  slope  stood  a  number  of  trees.  Some  of  them  were 
covered  with  leaves,  but  many  had  been  chopped  off  a  few  feet  from 
the  ground.  Tall,  dead  tree  tops  had  been  nailed  and  corded  on  to 
these  stumps.  Their  dead  branches  were  stiff  and  brittle.  Empty 
tins  stood  on  flattened  places  on  the  ground. 

The  rest  of  the  slope  was  bare  of  trees.  Nearly  at  the  top  stood 
a  small  square  tower  about  twenty-five  feet  high.  It  was  a  rickety 
looking  plank  erection,  and  sticking  out  of  the  top  was  a  long  pole 
with  a  rope  attached  to  it,  looking  like  a  fishing-rod. 

One  afternoon  I  passed  close  to  the  roccolo,  and  saw  Faustino  up 
a  ladder  at  work  on  one  of  the  trees.  Coming  closer  to  see  what  he 


204  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

was  doing,  I  was  surprised  to  find  him  picking  all  the  leaves  off  the 
tree,  and  dropping  them  on  to  the  ground.  It  was  a  silver  birch 
tree. 

'Whatever  are  you  doing?'  I  asked. 

'I'm  getting  it  ready,'  he  answered,  looking  down  at  me.  'It 
won't  be  long  before  the  birds  pass  now  on  their  way  south.' 

'  But  why  pull  the  leaves  off  ? ' 

'  Because,  signora,  when  the  birds  have  flown  across  the  mountains 
they  are  tired,  and  if  they  catch  sight  of  these  nice  bare  twigs,  they 
are  sure  to  settle  on  them  to  rest.  Then,  if  they  are  thirsty  they  can 
hop  about  on  the  grass  and  drink  from  the  little  tins  which  I  keep 
filled  with  water.' 

'  How  do  you  catch  them  ? '  I  asked. 

"The  net  is  stretched  across  the  lower  line  of  poles,'  he  answered, 
pointing  to  the  erection,  'and  I  sit  hidden  in  the  tower.  Then — at 
the  right  moment,  I  frighten  the  birds — by  waving  the  pole  to  which 
boughs  have  been  tied — and  the  birds  at  once  fly  low  and  down  the 
hill — straight  into  the  net.  .  .  .  Sometimes  we  catch  hundreds.' 

It  seemed  a  strange  occupation  to  pick  every  leaf  from  a  tree. 
Several  stood  already  naked  with  patches  of  withering  foliage  round 
them  on  the  grass.  Down  by  the  pole  erection  Marco  was  occupied 
in  covering  the  bare  parts  with  green  boughs.  The  ugly  plank  tower 
was  to  be  decorated  in  the  same  way — to  look  like  a  bush.  The  birds 
were  to  be  completely  taken  in. 

'The  first  time  I  saw  this  place,'  I  said  to  Faustino,  'I  walked 
all  over  it  and  all  round  it,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  Italians 
must  be  crazy  to  make  such  a  place.  The  dead  trees  tied  to  stumps 
particularly  puzzled  me.' 


BIRDS   OF  PASSAGE  205 

'You'll  soon  see  whether  Italians  are  crazy  or  not,'  answered 
Faustino  with  a  grin. 

'I  hope  you  won't  catch  any  birds,  that's  all/  I  said.  'It's  horrid 
to  snare  them  like  that.' 

'I've  a  perfect  passion  for  it,'  he  answered,  his  blue  eyes  twinkling. 
I  knew  he  was  an  expert  at  the  work. 

The  little  leaves  fluttered  down,  and  I  marvelled  at  his  patience. 

Marco  sauntered  up. 

'The  signora  Antonia  thinks  we  are  quite  mad,'  observed  Faustino 
from  the  tree.  'She  has  never  seen  a  roccolo.' 

'  Faustino's  as  happy  as  a  king  now  the  birds  are  coming,'  answered 
Marco.  'He's  an  awful  fellow,'  he  went  on,  'for  getting  up  in  the 
morning.  He  woke  me  up  at  two  o'clock  to-day  for  breakfast.' 

'I  can't  sleep  when  there's  a  change  in  the  weather,'  explained 
Faustino,  picking  the  leaves  and  dropping  them  down. 

'Oh,  nonsense,'  I  said,  'you  don't  mean  to  say  the  weather  is 
going  to  change  ?  Do  you  really  think  it  is  going  to  stop  raining  ? ' 

'Well,  it's  a  fact  I  can't  sleep  when  the  weather  changes.  So  it 
ought  to  change.  Perhaps  to-morrow.' 

Marco  laughed.  '  Look  ! '  he  said,  and  we  watched  the  low  clouds 
blow  across  the  summit.  "There's  fine  weather  for  you.' 

'How  much  longer  are  you  staying  up  here  with  the  cows?'  I 
asked  Marco.  He  had  a  nervous  look  about  him,  which  he  had  not 
had  earlier  in  the  summer,  and  he  had  grown  thin. 

'  If  only  the  signor  would  say  ! '  he  replied,  with  a  sigh.  '  Perhaps 
two  weeks,  perhaps  three,  perhaps  four.  How  should  I  know?' 

'Marco  frets  himself  thin,'  said  Faustino. 

'I  know  I  do.     It's  more  than  I  can  bear  to  be  always  alone. 


206  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

All  day  I  tramp  after  the  cows,  and  all  day  it  rains.  In  haytime  it 
was  a  bit  better — then  at  least  there  was  some  one  to  talk  to  ... 
only  I  was  so  tired  in  the  evenings  I  fell  asleep.  I  would  sooner  work 
at  one  of  the  cattle  farms  where  there  are  several  cowmen  together 
— but  I  am  always  alone.  Do  you  know,  I've  been  up  here  since 
April,  and  during  all  these  months  I've  not  had  a  single  day  off, 
nor  a  chance  of  going  to  mass.  Not  even  to  a  festival ! ' 

'But  surely  the  signor  could  have  arranged  for  you  to  have  a 
day  off ' 

'He  hasn't,'  said  Marco.  'Of  course,  if  I  cared  to  pay  some  one 
to  do  the  work  for  a  day — but  the  signor  would  not  like  that.  He'd 
say  the  cows  were  used  to  me,  and  must  not  be  looked  after  by  any 
one  else.' 

'What  the  signor  thinks,'  Faustino  enlightened  us,  'is  that  if 
he  did  allow  Marco  a  day  off  he'd  get  so  drunk  he  wouldn't  be  able 
to  walk  back.' 

'Very  likely,'  answered  Marco,  and  trudged  off  to  see  where  the 
cows  had  strayed  to. 

'I'm  quite  anxious  about  Marco,'  said  Faustino,  climbing  down 
the  swaying  ladder.  '  It  is  making  him  quite  ill.  He's  been  up  here 
six  months  .  .  .  and  not  once  been  to  mass.'  He  slipped  his  feet 
into  his  slippers,  which  had  been  left  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  and 
sat  down  beside  me  on  the  wet  grass. 

'Tell  me,  Faustino/  I  asked,  'wouldn't  it  be  possible  to  rent  a 
house  in  Campia  if  I  came  back  later  on  ? ' 

'Of  course  it  would/  he  answered,  'I  have  a  house  myself  which 
stands  empty.  It  has  four  rooms  and  a  piece  of  garden  walled  in, 
and  if  it  is  not  let  you  can  have  it  any  time.' 


BIRDS   OF  PASSAGE  207 

'What  would  the  rent  be?' 

"Thirty  lire  a  year,'  he  answered,  smiling  at  my  astonishment. 
'  Had  you  asked  my  advice  when  you  first  came,  I  would  have  told 
you  how  to  live  very  cheaply.' 

'If  I  had  asked  your  advice  then,'  I  answered,  'I  wouldn't  have 
understood  a  word  you  said.' 

'  That's  quite  true,  so  I  will  give  you  my  advice  now.  When  you 
come  back,  take  a  house  in  Campia  and  say  you  want  it  for  at  least 
six  months  or  a  year.  Even  if  you  pay  for  six  months,  and  only  stay 
for  two,  you  will  find  it  very  much  cheaper  than  taking  the  house 
by  the  month.  You  could  easily  borrow  or  buy  the  few  sticks  of 
furniture  you  would  need.  Make  sure  that  the  house  has  a  little 
garden  and  grow  your  own  vegetables.  Keep  rabbits  for  your  meat, 
and  a  goat  for  milk.  In  that  way,  signora,  you  would  spend  one-tenth 
of  what  you  did  at  San  Lorenzo.  Rosina  is  my  cousin,  and  although 
I'm  ashamed  to  say  so/  he  added,  with  evident  relish,  'I  don't  think 
much  of  her.  We  quarrelled  about  a  pig.  I  had  paid  her  for  it  and 
she  said  I  hadn't.  Bortolo,  who  had  been  present  when  I  paid  it, 
took  my  part.  But  Rosina  abused  me,  signora,  I  never  heard  any- 
thing like  it.  She  is  too  fond  of  money.  I  am  ashamed  to  have  to  say 
so,  because  she  is  my  cousin,  but  I  don't  think  much  of  her.  Orca 
cane,  fancy  charging  you  thirty  lire  a  month  for  a  room  at  San 
Lorenzo  !  Why,  if  you  stayed  much  longer  you'd  have  paid  enough 
to  buy  the  whole  house  !  Do  you  know  that  both  she  and  the  boys 
are  bragging  that  you  pay  Riccardo  twenty  lire  a  month  for  bringing 
your  food  up  the  mountain  ? ' 

'  How  amusing.    Last  month  I  paid  him  about  nine  lire.     I  pay  him  so 
much  every  time  he  comes,  and  when  I  go  down  I  carry  up  my  own  things.' 


2o8  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

Faustino's  merry  blue  eyes  twinkled.  He  was  a  fair-haired, 
rather  stout  man,  with  a  bald  patch  on  his  head,  one  of  the  few  who 
did  not  always  wear  a  hat.  His  wife  was  in  very  poor  health.  She 
was  consumptive  and  had  not  long  to  live. 

'Riccardo  is  very  tiresome  about  bringing  my  things  up/  I  went 
on.  '  He  never  comes  near  Cornighe  but  he  upsets  my  little  girl.  He 
pinches  her  and  pulls  her  hair,  or  takes  her  toys  away.  There  is 
always  a  squabble  about  something.  I  never  quite  know  if  he  is  very 
stupid  or  exceedingly  clever.' 

'I  hardly  know  what  to  make  of  that  boy  myself,'  said  Faustino, 
'  but  he  is  certainly  not  stupid.  On  the  contrary,  he  is  far  too  knowing. 
And  so  lazy  and  disobedient.  .  .  .  Do  you  know,'  he  added, 
lowering  his  voice  to  a  confidential  tone,  'that  boy  knows  as  much 
as  any  married  man  in  Campia.  When  he  grows  up  he  will  be  a  menace 
to  the  village.  There's  nothing  that  boy  doesn't  do  or  know,  he  will 
demoralise  the  others.  Rosina  can't  manage  him  as  it  is.  ...  Has 
Gioan  caught  any  birds?' 

'No,  scarcely  any.' 

'Ostia,  neither  have  I.f  Faustino  also  set  traps.  'Birds  are 
scarce.  But  there  is  still  time.  In  a  week  or  two  the  migratory 
birds  will  be  here,  then  you  must  come  and  see  me  catch 
them.' 

'I  shall  be  in  England  then,'  I  said,  getting  up. 

'Oh,  no,  you  must  stay  here  always.  We  have  become  so  accus- 
tomed to  you,  that  you  are  like  one  of  us.' 

I  left  him  and  wandered  aimlessly  down  into  the  valley.  On  the 
farther  side  I  came  upon  two  men  cutting  down  a  copse.  For  a  while 
I  watched,  and  then  walked  up  to  Girolomo.  The  other  man,  shy  of 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE  209 

being  seen  in  his  patched  workday  clothes,  went  off  out  of  sight.  It 
was  Giacomi.  He  was  as  sensitive  as  Toni  about  that. 

Girolomo,  noticing  my  critical  look,  shrugged  his  shoulders.  '  One 
must  make  money  somehow  in  a  year  like  this,'  he  explained. 

'It  seems  a  pity  to  cut  it.' 

'You  are  right,'  he  replied,  'we  didn't  mean  to  cut  it  for  some 
years,  but  you  see  the  hailstorm  has  spoilt  everything  else.  We 
shall  make  the  wood  into  charcoal.' 

I  watched  him  chop  the  copse,  feeling  rather  sad. 

'They  say,'  he  said  presently,  stopping  for  a  minute,  'that  we 
ought  to  pull  up  all  the  vines  and  make  a  bonfire  of  them.  .  .  .  But 
if  we  did  that,  signora,  I  do  not  know  what  we  could  grow  in  their  place.' 

Farther  up  the  valley  Gheco  was  burning  charcoal.  The  copse 
belonged  to  the  signor,  and  he  employed  Gheco  to  cut  and  burn  it, 
paying  so  much  for  each  kilo  of  charcoal  delivered  in  the  town.  As 
jobs  went  on  the  mountain,  it  was  not  a  bad  one,  and  there  was  so 
much  wood  that  Gheco  would  have  plenty  to  do  for  the  next  ten 
years  to  come. 

He  had  built  himself  a  jolly  little  baita  with  thick  walls  made  of 
brushwood.  A  large  beech-tree  stood  before  it,  reaching  nearly 
from  side  to  side  of  the  cleft,  and  spreading  its  protecting  branches 
over  the  charcoal  hearth.  Leaning  against  the  tree  trunk  was  the 
precious  board  on  which  Gheco  kept  a  tally  of  the  sacks  of  charcoal 
sent  down.  In  a  little  cave  hollowed  out  of  the  cliff-side  his  two 
goats  sheltered  from  the  weather. 

Apollonia's  younger  brother  was  working  under  Gheco,  who  felt 
both  important  and  responsible.  Just  now  Achille  was  at  the  top 
of  the  slope  getting  some  billets  down.  He  tied  an  immense  bundle 


210  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

together,  about  four  feet  in  diameter,  and  set  it  in  motion.  It 
tumbled  and  rolled  down,  gaining  speed  as  it  went,  but  toppling 
awkwardly  over  a  stone  it  took  a  new  direction,  and  ran  dead  up 
against  one  of  those  trees  left  standing,  because  they  were  of  a  size 
forbidden  to  be  hewn.  Achille  clambered  down  and  tried  to  shift 
the  bundle,  but  it  was  far  too  heavy.  Finding  it  useless,  he  walked 
round  and  began  cautiously  to  hack  at  the  tree.  He  was  in  terror 
lest  the  bundle  should  roll  down  on  top  of  him.  Four  times  he  had 
to  clamber  back  and  make  another  cut  at  the  slender  stem.  At  last, 
giving  the  bundle  a  vigorous  push  from  above,  the  tree  gave  way 
and  the  bundle  rolled  down  to  the  bottom. 

Gheco  was  arranging  a  fresh  stack  of  wood.  A  number  of  sacks 
packed  with  charcoal  were  standing  about,  ready  to  be  taken  away 
on  donkeys.  Apollonia,  with  a  large  straw  hat  askew  on  her  head 
and  kept  on  with  a  thick  knitting  needle  stuck  through  the  crown, 
was  making  fascines  of  the  small  wood  that  could  not  be  used  for 
charcoal.  Loose  ends  of  hair  hung  round  her  sunburnt  face,  and  her 
big  brown  eyes  were  bright  and  friendly.  She  was  talking  loudly  to 
Gheco. 

I  had  often  been  there  before,  for  I  had  sketched  Gheco  and 
Achille.  Gheco  had  been  a  patient  sitter,  horrified  when  he  saw  I 
had  painted  in  all  the  patches  on  his  clothes,  and  very  anxious  that 
I  should  do  his  moustache  justice.  Whilst  I  was  drawing  Achille, 
Gheco  and  Apollonia  sat  in  the  baita  talking.  Apollonia  laughed, 
and  we  could  hear  great  smacking  kisses.  It  was  thought  a  sure 
thing  that  they  were  to  be  married,  but  as  yet  Gheco  had  not  been 
to  Apollonia's  parents  to  make  the  final  proposal  for  her  hand.  But 
he  had  decided  to  visit  them  the  following  Sunday. 


BIRDS   OF  PASSAGE  211 

I  did  not  loiter  long,  but  wandered  up  the  track  worn  by  Filip's 
oxen-wagon.  The  track  was  fringed  with  bushes.  Fine  rain  fell 
gently  and  clouds  blew  across  the  crags.  Big  drops  fell  from  the  bushes. 
I  left  the  track  and  walked  on  the  grass,  thinking  how  few  flowers 
I  had  seen  since  the  hay  was  cut.  Dainty  pink  cyclamen  grew  among 
the  bushes,  and  I  had  grown  very  fond  of  them.  I  gathered  a  few 
edible  fungi  and  carried  them  in  my  hat. 

Some  one  was  talking  loudly.  As  I  came  near  I  saw  it  was  the 
little  cowboy  from  the  cattle  farm.  With  great  eloquence  he  was 
haranguing  three  stolid  cows.  He  was  the  officer,  they  the  recruits. 
He  stopped  abashed  when  he  saw  me  and  grinned  !  I  had  never  seen 
any  one  with  a  face  so  like  a  monkey,  especially  about  the  nostrils. 

I  asked  him  what  his  name  was. 

'Angel,'  he  answered. 

Then  I  asked  how  old  he  was. 

'Thirty/  he  replied,  thinking  I  was  inquiring  how  many  cows 
there  were. 

I  repeated  my  question  once,  twice,  three  tunes,  and  three  times 
over  again,  but  he  only  shook  his  head.  It  seemed  extraordinary 
that  he  should  not  understand  so  simple  a  question — he  must  have 
learnt  Italian  at  school. 

Giving  it  up,  I  repeated  my  question  in  the  language  of  Campia, 
saying,  'Quac  agn  ghe  te  ti?' 

He  answered  promptly:    'Dodesz,'  which  means  twelve. 

Then  he  chased  the  cows  off,  for  he  knew  as  well  as  I  did  that 
they  were  out  of  bounds,  grazing  on  the  grassy  slope  belonging  to 
Filip.  I  think  the  cowman  found  that  a  very  good  way  of  feeding 
the  cows  when  grass  was  scarce.  Once  some  of  the  cows  strayed 


2i2  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

right  up  to  Cornighe  and  one  of  them  devoured  a  napkin  Marget 
had  put  out  to  bleach.  Marget  lodged  a  complaint.  It  wasn't  the 
grass  they  ate — that  was  a  mere  trifle — she  explained  to  the  cowmen, 
but  Filip  did  not  like  the  cattle  on  the  slope  cutting  the  turf  with 
their  hoofs.  She  was  given  two  pounds  of  butter  as  compensation. 

I  could  hear  Marget  on  the  path  above  me  calling  to  the  goats, 
and  I  could  hear  the  tinkle  of  goat-bells.  I  began  to  scramble  up 
the  last  steep  bit.  The  damp  wind  blew  in  my  face.  Half-way  I 
stopped  in  surprise,  for  on  one  side  of  the  slope  the  grass  was  dotted 
with  flowers.  Pale  lilac  flowers  and  a  few  white  ones  amongst  them. 
They  were  autumn  crocuses,  so  fresh  and  unexpected. 

Upon  the  path  I  met  Marget.  She  was  trying  to  coax  the  goats 
home  to  shut  them  up  for  the  night,  but  they  had  no  intention  of 
coming.  They  were  the  most  contrary  creatures.  They  stared  at 
her  impudently,  just  out  of  reach.  Marget  gave  vent  to  her  annoy- 
ance in  a  spirited  flow  of  abuse,  but  the  goats  did  not  mind.  In  the 
end,  when  they  had  wearied  of  dodging  her,  they  turned  round  and 
capered  madly  up  the  slope  until  the  mist  screened  them  from  sight. 

Marget  watched  for  a  moment,  then  shaking  her  fist  at  them, 
she  shouted  angrily  :  '  Bastard  ! ' 

Then  she  turned  back,  laughing  at  herself. 

We  walked  home  together,  glad  to  be  in  the  warm  dry  kitchen 
again,  and  made  our  evening  soup.  We  spoke  of  Marget's  little 
grandson  who  had  just  died.  He  was  the  son  of  Stefen  and  Maria, 
and  had  lived  for  only  one  short  week.  Stefen  had  been  greatly 
disappointed  when  the  baby  died,  for  he  had  always  longed  for  a 
son.  The  poor  little  mite's  end  had  been  tragic.  The  mother  had 
no  milk  for  him,  so  in  their  ignorance  they  fed  the  baby  on  caf6  au 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE  213 

lait.  Finding  that  diet  did  not  agree,  they  gave  him  the  best  cow's 
milk  they  could  procure,  but  did  not  know  that  it  ought  to  have  been 
diluted  with  water.  As  the  baby  still  continued  to  be  sick,  they 
asked  Francesco's  wife,  who  had  a  baby  a  few  months  old,  to  suckle 
it.  She  was  quite  willing  to  do  this,  and  would  have  done  so  from 
the  first  if  she  had  been  approached.  However,  it  was  too  late. 
The  following  day  the  baby  died,  shortly  after  having  been  christened. 

'And  what  did  they  call  him?'  I  asked. 

'He  was  called  after  Filip,  of  course,'  answered  Marget. 

'Why  "of  course?'" 

'Because  it's  the  custom.  The  eldest  boy  is  always  called  after 
his  father's  father,  and  the  second  boy  after  his  mother's  father. 
The  eldest  girl  is  called  after  her  mother's  mother,  and  the  second 
one  after  her  father's  mother.' 

That  must  have  settled  a  great  many  of  the  children's  names 
without  further  worry  on  the  part  of  the  parents.  It  also  accounted 
for  the  fact  that  so  many  villagers  bore  the  same  Christian  names. 
Cousins  would  be  called  alike.  In  order  to  distinguish  between  the 
different  individuals  they  would  be  called  by  different  diminutives. 
Thus  the  Francescos  would  be  known  as  Franceschi,  Gheco,  or  Cesco. 
Dominico  would  become  Meneq  or  Minghi.  If  this  was  not  sufficiently 
clear  the  nickname  was  added. 

Not  every  family  in  Campia,  but  most  of  them,  had  a  nickname 
which  was  hereditary.  It  could  be  used  by  any  member  of  the  family, 
but  custom  usually  decided  to  whom  it  should  be  applied.  The  nick- 
name was  always  placed  after  the  Christian  name,  not  before  it,  as 
the  surname  invariably  was.  For  instance,  the  Bertoldis  had  the 

nickname  Merlo  (blackbird).    Bartoldi  Toni  was  known  amongst  his 
I.P.  P 


2i4  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

friends  as  Toni  Merlo,  and  his  son,  Vittorio  Merlo.  Toni's  grandmother, 
•who  had  been  a  dark  woman  with  a  beautiful  voice  had  been  the  first 
to  bear  that  nickname.  Nino's  branch  of  the  family,  although  the 
elder  one,  did  not  use  the  name,  but  frequently  boasted  that  they 
had  every  right  to.  Some  of  the  Castellis  were  called  Colombo  (dove). 
The  original  Colombo  was  an  uncle  of  Bortolo,  but  as  the  name  was 
only  borne  by  Colombo's  descendants,  Bortolo  had  no  right  to  it. 
Gheco's  family  nickname  was  Macuccia,  and  the  Silvestris  were  either 
Cumbu  or  else  Marchini,  according  to  which  branch  they  belonged. 

The  Di  Marchesis'  nickname  was  Filip,  Filip's  real  name  being 
Dominico.  He  was  never  called  Dominico,  but  just  simply  Filip. 
His  younger  brother  was  called  Paolo  Filip.  Angelina  was  spoken 
of  as  Angelina  Filipa  or  La  Filipa,  whilst  the  name  was  never  asso- 
ciated with  Marget.  The  original  Filip  had  been  Filip's  grandfather's 
brother,  who  had  been  christened  Filippo.  I  do  not  know  why  his 
nephew  took  his  name  and  made  a  nickname  of  it.  I  never  heard 
it  used  in  connection  with  the  grandchildren  of  the  original  Filip. 

Most  of  these  nicknames  were  of  recent  origin,  but  I  do  not 
believe  the  custom  was  a  new  one.  Probably  after  a  few  generations 
the  name  would  fall  into  disuse  or  a  more  appropriate  one  be  invented. 
Or  the  fact  that  there  might  be  six  Dominicos  in  the  village  at  once 
would  make  it  imperative  that  one  at  least  should  bear  a  dis- 
tinguishing nickname.  It  was  a  fact  that  ten  per  cent,  of  the  male 
population  were  called  Francesco. 

These  nicknames  were  by  no  means  a  custom  confined  to  the 
village,  but  were  common  to  the  countryside. 

Marget  sat  on  the  hearthstone  picking  over  fungi,  cutting  the 
larger  ones  in  half — preparatory  to  boiling  and  salting  them  for 


BIRDS   OF  PASSAGE  215 

the  winter.  Fungi  were  very  plentiful  on  the  mountain  and  there 
were  very  many  different  kinds  and  very  few  indeed  which  Marget 
did  not  consider  edible.  She  had  even  gathered  some  fly  agaric — 
bright  vermilion  fungi,  spotted  white,  and  was  preparing  them  with 
the  others. 

'I've  always  been  told  that  that  sort  is  poisonous,'  I  informed 
her. 

'  So  they  are  if  you  eat  them  like  that.  But  if  you  boil  them  and 
drain  them,  and  throw  away  the  water  and  salt  them,  they  are  quite 
good  to  eat.  We  always  prepare  them  like  that.' 

But  I  preferred  to  eat  the  kinds  I  knew,  and  there  was  no  lack  of 
them.  Boletus  scaber  dotted  the  green  grass  everywhere.  Canther- 
ellus  were  not  so  plentiful,  but  we  found  a  great  many  Lactarius 
deliciosus.  And  they  were  delicious.  We  put  them  upside  down  on 
the  fire-tongs,  poured  olive  oil  into  them,  sprinkled  salt  and  chopped 
parsley  or  onion,  and  roasted  them  over  the  embers. 

I  was  glad  of  these  fungi,  as  Rosina  was  very  remiss  in  sending 
up  our  supplies. 

Not  only  were  there  enough  of  them  for  us,  but  for  every  one 
else  as  well.  At  dawn  the  girls  would  come  up  from  the  village  and 
gather  fungi  until  they  could  carry  no  more.  Between  five  and 
nine  in  the  morning,  the  slopes  below  Cornighe  would  ring  with  the 
laughter  and  noisy  gossip  of  these  girls.  Very  often  a  peasant  lad, 
out  shooting,  would  loiter  there  and  liven  them  up  still  more.  And 
they  would  talk  and  laugh  with  him  until  he  was  out  of  earshot 
again.  By  nine  o'clock  the  girls  would  have  gone  back  to  the  village, 
and  the  slopes  below  Cornighe  be  once  more  silent  and  deserted. 

I  met  Teresina  there  one  morning,  and  helped  her  fill  her  basket. 


216  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

She  told  me  she  had  been  up  all  night  nursing  Anetta,  who  had 
suddenly  been  taken  ill  with  pains  in  her  eyes.  After  giving  Nino 
his  breakfast  at  dawn,  she  had  wandered  up  the  mountain,  that 
wearying  two  hours'  walk,  and  had  been  on  her  feet  ever  since,  looking 
for  fungi.  She  was  on  her  way  home  now,  to  give  Nino  his  dinner. 

She  took  a  little  dead  bird  from  her  pocket  and  showed  it  to  me. 
She  had  seen  it  quite  early  that  morning  perching  in  a  bush,  its  head 
tucked  under  its  wing.  She  had  just  grabbed  it.  .  . 

Marget,  the  little  girl,  and  I,  did  not  confine  our  fungi  hunting 
to  the  morning.  We  often  went  out  together  in  the  afternoon  and 
became  most  enthusiastic  fungi  gatherers.  Marget  salted  all  we 
picked,  and  when  she  had  enough  for  winter  use  she  salted  some  for 
her  daughter  Francesca. 

Once  we  went  out  on  the  slopes  behind  the  pink  villa,  which  had 
remained  unoccupied  during  the  summer  owing  to  the  bad  weather. 
Thick  clouds  swept  across  the  mountain,  and  we  lost  sight  of  each 
other,  and  could  only  see  a  small  patch  of  ground  at  a  time.  By 
constantly  calling  we  kept  in  touch,  but  no  doubt  we  often  went  over 
the  same  ground,  not  knowing  where  the  others  had  been.  But  we 
managed  to  fill  our  baskets.  Tired  and  wet,  our  hair  beady  with  the 
mist,  we  returned  to  Cornighe.  Marget  made  up  a  large  fire  and  we 
sat  round  it  wanning  and  drying  ourselves. 

I  made  some  cocoa.  At  first  Marget  would  not  take  any,  but  in 
the  end  curiosity  overcame  her  scruples,  for  she  had  never  tasted 
it  before.  She  drank  a  bowlful  with  great  satisfaction  and  seemed  very 
pleased  to  think  that  she  would  now  be  able  to  have  an  opinion  when 
other  folk  spoke  about  cocoa. 

We  sat  talking  by  the  fire  for  a  long  time.    We  were  great  friends 


BIRDS   OF  PASSAGE  217 

and  latterly  Marget  had  put  off  some  of  her  reserve.  To-night  she 
discussed  her  neighbours. 

Marget  did  not  like  Nino,  nor  did  she  think  I  ought  to  either. 
Hoping,  perhaps,  to  turn  me  against  him,  she  began,  at  first  cautiously, 
to  blacken  his  character,  thinking,  perhaps,  that  I  too  judged  people 
by  the  rigid  Di  Marchesi  standard,  and  that  I  should  condemn  on 
hearsay.  However,  she  told  me  no  more  than  I  already  suspected. 

When  Bortolo  went  to  America,  Nino,  who  was  then  unmarried, 
managed  Bortolo's  farm,  staying  nearly  a  year  at  San  Lorenzo.  That 
in  itself  was  enough  to  make  the  villagers  thoughtful,  but  when  it 
ended  by  Rosina  suddenly  becoming  ill  and  being  carried  off  to 
hospital  in  a  half-dying  condition,  it  was  rumoured  that  she  had 
swallowed  strong  drugs  to  avoid  a  scandal. 

The  strange  part  of  it  was  that  Bortolo  still  had  such  affection 
for  Nino.  There  was  no  one  in  the  village  he  loved  or  esteemed 
more.  Even  his  habit  of  seeing  only  the  best  of  things  could  hardly 
overlook  such  an  action  in  his  friend.  I  never  quite  understood 
Bortolo.  He  must  have  known  Rosina  was  faithless,  Nino  was  by 
no  means  the  only  one  her  name  was  coupled  with.  As  the  Di 
Marchesis  significantly  said :  '  Rosina  will  do  anything  for 
money.' 

Perhaps  Bortolo  had  been  disgusted  with  her  and  didn't  care 
any  more.  He  deeply  resented  it  if  she  showed  him  any  affection 
in  public.  He,  at  least,  had  been  a  faithful  husband,  and  the  only 
scandal  in  which  his  name  figured  happened  long  before  he  was 
married.  At  that  time  he  made  love  to  a  married  woman  whose 
husband  had  gone  to  America,  where  he  remained  for  fifteen  years. 
The  woman  had  had  four  children,  presently  a  fifth  was  born. 


218  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

Bortolo,  who  was  said  to  be  its  father,  flatly  denied  it.  He  might 
have  been  believed  if  the  boy  had  not  grown  up  so  like  him.  He 
was  more  like  Bortolo  than  Bortolo  himself. 

The  woman  brought  the  child  up,  and  when  her  husband  returned 
from  America  he  accepted  the  situation  and  treated  the  boy  as  if 
he  were  his  own.  He  sent  him  to  America  as  soon  as  he  was  old 
enough,  and  the  young  fellow  came  back  to  Italy  for  military  service. 
He  spent  a  short  time  at  Campia.  Neither  Bortolo  nor  Rosina  would 
speak  to  him.  On  one  occasion  he  boldly  went  to  San  Lorenzo  and 
ordered  a  drink.  Without  a  word  Rosina  hastily  placed  the  measure 
of  wine  on  the  table.  Then  she  went  out  into  the  fields  where  the 
rest  of  the  family  had  scattered  at  the  lad's  approach.  So  he  sat 
alone  in  the  empty  house  and  drank  his  wine.  Whether  he  was  sad 
or  amused  I  do  not  know.  After  having  put  the  money  on  the  table 
he  walked  back  to  the  village. 

It  was  a  great  pity  so  few  men  took  their  wives  with  them  when 
they  went  to  America.  Statistics  say  that  one-third  of  the  Italians 
take  their  wives,  but  this  is  not  true  of  Campia. 

There  were  already  twelve  men  from  the  village  in  America  and 
seven  more  went  out  the  autumn  after  the  hailstorm.  So  that 
altogether  twenty-four  men  had  been,  or  still  were,  in  the  States. 
Six  of  these  had  made  the  journey  twice.  This  was  quite  a  large 
number  when  it  is  remembered  that  Campia  had  barely  two  hundred 
inhabitants,  including  children.  Of  these  twenty-four  men,  only 
three  had  taken  their  wives  to  America  with  them. 

Wives  left  behind  in  Campik  invariably  got  into  trouble,  they 
were  not  to  be  trusted.  Home-coming  was  often  a  tragedy — as  if 
it  hadn't  been  bad  enough  to  have  to  go  to  America.  .  .  .  And 


BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE  219 

home-coming  was  sometimes  put  off,  and  in  the  end  abandoned, 
because  of  a  tragedy  which  could  not  be  faced. 

There  was  the  woman  the  priest  had  relations  with — she  was 
as  much  given  to  drink  as  he  was;  there  was  Giacomina  who  had  a 
lover.  There  was  Julietta,  herself  above  reproach,  but  said  to  be 
the  child  of  a  former  Campia  priest.  This  could  not  be  excused  on 
the  plea  that  her  mother  had  been  abandoned  by  her  husband,  he 
had  never  been  away  from  Campia.  Neither  had  Cristofolo  abandoned 
Anetta  in  that  way.  But  her  daughter  Dominica  was  not  like  the 
others.  It  was  supposed  that  her  reason  for  disappearing  for  six 
years  was  because  her  sister  had  written  an  abusive  letter,  disclosing 
her  parentage.  Poor  Dominica.  Nevertheless  she  forgave  them 
and  came  back  rich,  a  benefactress  to  them  all,  forgiving  even  the 
hard  blows  which  had  made  her  run  away  in  the  first  place. 

Only  one  girl  in  the  village  had  a  bad  reputation.  She  had  had 
two  children,  the  first  being  taken  by  the  foundling  hospital.  And 
there  was  another  girl  who  had  a  baby  and  who  flatly  refused  to 
marry  its  father,  although  he  moved  heaven  and  earth  to  make  her 
do  so.  Her  refusal  was  reckoned  as  one  of  the  most  disgraceful  things 
that  had  ever  happened  in  Campia.  The  villagers  with  their  wonderful 
solidarity,  personally  felt  the  taint  of  it. 

Rosina  told  me  the  tale  with  horror  in  her  voice.  The  village 
women  would  not  speak  to  the  girl,  but  I  have  no  doubt  she  will 
live  that  down,  as  so  many  other  things  have  been  lived  down  in 
the  village. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

SAN   LORENZO   AGAIN 

TOWARDS  the  end  of  September  it  became  too  cold  and  damp  to 
make  our  stay  on  the  mountain  any  longer  enjoyable.  I  had  always 
hoped  for  a  spell  of  fine  weather,  but  I  had  hoped  in  vain.  Cold, 
thick  clouds  blew  across  the  heights  day  after  day,  and  it  was  some- 
times as  dark  at  midday  as  London  in  a  fog.  So  I  decided  to  go 
back  to  San  Lorenzo  for  a  few  weeks  before  returning  to  England. 

We  were  sorry  to  leave  Cornighe.  Our  stay  there  had  been  very 
happy  and  we  had  grown  quite  fond  of  the  Di  Marchesis.  With 
feelings  of  regret  I  watched  Angelina  and  Marget  load  our  baggage 
on  the  donkey.  Marget's  eyes  were  bright  with  unshed  tears. 

The  donkey  started  to  walk  down  the  hill  and  to  my  concern  I 
noticed  that  it  limped. 

In  answer  to  my  reprimands  Angelina  said  that  she  had  not 
known  it.  Did  it  matter? ' 

Marget  said  emphatically  that  it  did  not. 

'How  dare  Minghi  send  me  up  a  limping  donkey?'  I  asked. 
'Does  he  think  I  have  a  heart  of  stone?' 

Angelina  did  not  reply. 

Marget  spoke  to  the  donkey.    'Num,'  she  said. 

The  animal  started  and  limped  down  the  path.  We  watched 
critically,  It  seemed  unusually  willing  to  go.  ... 

220 


SAN  LORENZO   AGAIN  221 

'Come  on/  said  Angelina,  who  had  a  practical  mind,  'there's 
no  other  donkey  on  the  mountain,  and  if  you  don't  have  this  one, 
you  won't  get  your  things  down  before  to-morrow.' 

I  was  watching  the  donkey — it  had  not  stopped  yet.  If  its  leg 
had  been  very  painful,  I  reasoned,  surely  it  would  have  come  to  a 
dead  stop  long  ago.  After  all,  it  did  not  limp  so  badly. 

Marget  said  good-bye.  She  was  staying  at  Cornighe  for  a  few 
more  days.  She  watched  until  we  were  out  of  sight  round  the  bend 
and  then  walked  back  to  the  deserted  cottage.  Angelina  told  me 
afterwards  that  her  mother  went  upstairs  into  our  bedroom,  and  sat 
for  a  long  while  on  the  hay  which  had  been  our  beds,  the  tears 
streaming  down  her  old  face. 

*  *  •  •  •  •  • 

I  went  back  to  San  Lorenzo  with  misgivings.  I  did  not  want  to 
fall  out  with  Rosina,  but  I  was  afraid  that  I  might.  She  had  been 
so  good  to  us  whilst  we  were  with  her,  still  she  had  been  very  trying 
during  our  stay  on  the  mountain.  Besides,  I  had  offended  her,  and 
what  an  offended  Rosina  was  like  I  did  not  know. •• 

It  happened  like  this. 

A  few  Sundays  back  Angelina  and  I  had  started  off  from  Cornighe 
for  a  long  walk  to  a  distant  village.  We  zigzagged  down  the  northern 
slopes  of  the  mountain  into  a  beautiful  valley,  and  following  the 
course  of  a  rushing  stream,  came  out  on  to  the  new  military  road. 
Here  I  left  Angelina  and  went  back  to  bathe  in  a  pool  we  had  passed. 
She  did  not  like  the  idea  of  a  cold  bath  and  so  sat  sat  by  the  road 
and  changed  her  shoes.  She  had  brought  her  best  boots  in  a  paper 
parcel  and  now  exchanged  them  for  her  zupei.  Then  she  wrapped 
the  zupei  up  hi  the  paper  and  waited  for  me. 


222  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

We  arrived  at  the  village  in  time  for  mass,  and  after  dinner  set 
out  for  Campia. 

It  was  a  very  long  walk  and  a  very  hot  day.  We  arrived  in  the 
evening,  both  very  tired.  On  making  inquiries  for  a  night's  lodging, 
Giacomina  offered  me  a  bedroom  in  her  house,  and  I  was  only  too 
thankful  not  to  have  to  go  on  to  San  Lorenzo.  I  was  going  up  the 
mountain  early  next  morning,  and  it  would  have  been  out  of  my 
way.  Rosina  did  not  expect  me. 

Giacomina  showed  me  into  a  fair-sized  bedroom  which  was  used 
by  her  daughter,  but  ever  since  her  lover  had  gone  to  America,  Catina 
had  been  away  hi  service.  The  room  had  been  built  on  to  the  second 
floor  of  the  house  and  stretched  across  the  yard.  Exactly  under- 
neath was  the  manure  heap.  Through  a  tiny  trap-door  in  the  floor, 
rubbish  could  be  dropped  down  on  to  the  heap. 

Giacomina  told  me  that  they  had  had  news  from  Gaetano.  He 
had  sent  home  £40.  This  money  he  had  been  able  to  save  during  the 
five  months  he  had  been  away.  Part  of  it  was  to  repay  her,  for  she 
had  lent  Gaetano  the  money  for  his  fare,  part  of  it  was  a  loan  to 
Nino  to  pay  his  fare  to  America,  and  forty  lire  was  a  present  to  his 
old  father.  Clear  of  his  debts,  Gaetano  could  now  work  and  save. 

'Then  Nino  will  be  able  to  go  soon?'  I  remarked. 

'Yes,  poor  fellow,  he  will  try  to.'  Giacomina  sighed  and  closed 
the  window.  She  bid  me  good-night,  and  I  wearily  undressed, 
listening  to  the  young  people  singing  by  the  fountain.  I  wondered 
whether  it  would  not  be  better  to  open  the  window.  When  shut, 
the  smell  of  manure  coming  up  through  the  plank  floor  into  the  hot 
room  was  intolerable;  but  when  open,  mosquitoes  whirred  in.  I 
effected  a  compromise,  and  opened  the  window  a  little.  After  all, 


SAN  LORENZO   AGAIN  223 

what  did  it  matter,  open  or  shut,  I  was  so  tired  I  should  drop  asleep 
at  once.  Presently  the  young  people  clattered  off  to  bed.  It  became 
very  quiet  and  I  fell  asleep. 

I  awoke  at  dawn.  The  village  was  full  of  sounds.  The  men  were 
off  to  work,  some  up  the  mountain,  others  down.  Children  were 
calling  to  goats  and  driving  them  up  the  mountain  road.  Oxen  and 
braying  donkeys  were  gathered  round  the  trough,  taking  turns  to 
drink  whilst  the  women  filled  their  copper  pails  at  the  tap.  People 
shouted  and  bustled  about,  and  some  girls  were  singing.  There  was 
a  smell  of  burning  olive  wood  in  the  air  from  a  dozen  breakfast 
fires. 

By  five  o'clock  the  last  stragglers  had  passed  by.  The  village 
was  silent  and  deserted  when  the  sun  rose  above  Monte  Moro. 

Giacomina  was  downstairs  making  some  coffee.  She  went  out 
to  buy  me  an  egg  and  a  roll,  for  which  I  paid,  but  she  would  not  hear 
of  my  paying  for  the  use  of  her  room.  No.  She  would  be  ashamed 
to  take  anything  after  I  had  been  so  good  to  her  brother  Nino.  Would 
not  I  for  once  accept  something  from  her? 

Rosina  had  been  furious. 

What  right  had  I  to  stay  in  the  village,  she  asked,  when  San 
Lorenza  was  there?  Why  hadn't  I  come  to  her?  Who  dare  entice 
away  her  lodgers  ? 

She  vented  her  feelings  on  poor  Giacomina  and  others  who 
passed  by,  whilst  the  temper  was  on  her.  What  had  been  said  came 
to  my  ears  through  Marget.  Wild  rumours  were  in  the  air.  Rosina 
had  said.  .  .  .  She  had  said  a  number  of  things,  but  I  knew  she 
would  not  be  base  enough  to  put  them  into  practice.  Nevertheless, 
it  was  with  a  feeling  of  uneasiness  that  I  went  back  to  San  Lorenzo. 


224  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

I  had  sent  a  note  down  by  Riccardo  saying  that  we  were  coming,  so 
that  Rosina  could  get  in  certain  stores,  as  she  always  had  done 
when  she  expected  us. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  we  entered  the  gates  of  San  Lorenzo.  Our 
appearance  must  have  been  decidedly  picturesque.  In  fact  we  looked 
like  a  couple  of  gipsies.  My  little  girl  carried  Christine  under  one 
arm,  and  she  was  dressed  like  a  boy,  and  ran  barefoot  by  my  side, 
her  soft,  fair  hair  tousled  by  the  wind.  My  hair  too  was  blown  about. 
We  were  both  as  brown  as  sun  and  weather  could  make  us.  My 
clothes  were  shabby  with  wear  and  rain,  and  my  hat,  though  still 
useful,  was  suffering  visibly  from  old  age.  I  carried  a  knapsack  on 
my  back  and  a  long  staff  in  my  hand.  Round  my  neck  hung  a  neck- 
lace of  dried  hips,  and  my  brown  arms  still  bore  the  scratches  that 
had  been  made  when  I  picked  them  off  the  wild  rose  bushes.  The 
donkey,  laden  with  various  parcels,  and  all  manner  of  things  not 
wrapped  up,  completed  the  picture.  Angelina  was  by  far  the  most 
presentable-looking  of  the  party. 

Rosina  was  standing  by  the  door,  and  the  little  one,  thrusting  her 
doll  into  my  hand,  scampered  down  the  path  to  be  embraced. 

Two  fashionable  Italian  ladies  who  were  staying  at  San  Lorenzo, 
regarded  us  with  some  surprise.  They  were  walking  under  the  pergola, 
each  carrying  a  parasol  to  shade  her  delicate  complexion  from  the 
rays  of  the  sun.  But  they  stopped  to  stare  at  us. 

Rosina,  who  was  all  honey,  helped  me  to  unload  the  donkey 
and  carry  the  things  upstairs.  The  house  was  evidently  quite  full. 

Signora  Rosa  and  her  ten-year-old  daughter  were  in  one  room. 
Signora  Bianca  and  her  little  girl  were  in  the  other,  whilst  her  two 
little  boys — who  had  probably  been  using  my  room — now  slept 


225 

downstairs  with  Bortolo,   Paolino,   and  Riccardo,   all  five  of  them 
in  the  big  bed  ! 

Ever  since  the  hailstorm,  Bortolo  had  been  strangely  irritable. 
The  peaceful  old  fellow  would  get  angry  and  flare  up  about  nothing. 
Rosina  dare  not  answer  back  !  I  suspected  a  scene  or  two  in  which 
she  must  have  been  worsted,  for  her  manner  towards  him  had 
altered.  She  had  become  tactful  and  considerate — half  in  pity, 
perhaps,  for  she  knew  how  bitter  had  been  his  disappointment. 
With  what  love  he  had  worked,  with  what  hope  he  had  looked  forward 
to  the  promise  of  a  splendid  harvest.  Alas,  he  was  not  gathering 
it  in,  instead,  he  was  clearing  the  rubbish  away,  or  trying  to  put 
some  heart  into  the  sorry-looking  vines. 

In  the  mulberry- tree,  just  outside  my  bedroom  window  he  had 
rigged  up  a  swing,  and  here  the  children  played  continually,  scream- 
ing at  the  tops  of  their  voices.  They  squabbled  the  whole  time. 
Signora  Bianca's  two  little  boys  were  particularly  spiteful,  and  if 
it  was  not  they  upsetting  the  little  girls,  it  was  Riccardo  pinching 
and  punching  the  lot  of  them.  They  quarrelled  for  turns  in  the 
swing,  forcibly  ejecting  each  other.  Then  somebody  would  get  knocked 
over  and  shriek. 

Unfortunately  my  little  girl  fell  ill.  She  became  feverish,  com- 
plained of  a  headache,  and  suffered  so  much  from  the  noise  that  I 
had  to  ask  the  children  to  go  away  and  play  elsewhere.  They  took 
no  notice  whatever  of  what  I  said,  but  after  staring  at  me,  went  on 
playing  as  before.  So  I  went  down  into  the  kitchen  and  asked 
Rosina  to  tell  them  to  go  away.  She  went  out  and  spoke  to  them, 
but  they  took  no  notice  of  her  either. 

By  this  time  the  sick  child  was  frantic. 


226  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

I  went  to  Rosina  again. 

"The  noise  must  be  stopped,'  I  said. 

'I  can't  do  anything.'     She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

'Then  the  swing  must  be  taken  down.' 

'If  the  child  is  as  ill  as  all  that,'  said  Rosina  rudely,  'you  ought 
to  have  a  doctor — that  is  what  Signora  Bianca  thinks  too  ! ' 

'What  the  child  needs  is  quiet  so  that  she  can  sleep,'  I  answered, 
'surely  that  is  not  asking  too  much.  She  cannot  sleep  with  such  a 
noise.  Why  can't  the  children  play  somewhere  else  this  afternoon — 
the  garden  is  large  enough.' 

Rosina,  who  evidently  meant  to  be  disagreeable,  shrugged  her 
shoulders  again.  But  Signora  Bianca,  who  had  overheard  our  con- 
versation, went  out. 

'Be  good  children,'  she  called  sweetly,  'and  go  away  from  the 
swing,  the  little  English  girl  is  ill  and  wants  to  sleep.' 

Having  done  her  duty  thus  far  she  came  indoors.  Experience 
must  have  taught  her  that  she  was  never  obeyed. 

'Where  is  Bortolo?'  I  asked  in  desperation,  and  found  him  by 
the  stable.  I  suggested  that  he  should  take  the  swing  down  and  put 
it  up  elsewhere.  It  would  have  taken  him  five  minutes  and  there 
were  a  number  of  suitable  trees  on  the  other  side  of  the  house. 

But  he  did  not  want  to  take  it  down.  Instead  he  fetched  a  ladder 
and  twisted  the  ropes  out  of  reach.  The  six  children  ran  off  and  for 
five  minutes  it  was  quiet  and  peaceful. 

Presently  Riccardo  came  noiselessly  across  the  grass  in  his  socks. 
Stealthily  he  climbed  the  tree  and  unwound  the  swing  ropes.  In  a 
moment  the  others  were  around  him,  pushing  and  shouting  for  turns. 

I  went  straight  to  Bortolo. 


SAN  LORENZO  AGAIN  227 

'If  the  swing  isn't  taken  down  in  five  minutes,'  I  said,  ready  to 
burst  with  anger,  'I  shall  run  up  to  Campia  and  find  some  one  else 
to  do  it  for  me — and  pay  them  for  it ! ' 

This  was  too  much  for  Bortolo.  He  took  the  swing  down  at  once 
and  put  it  on  the  farther  side  of  the  house,  where  the  children  played 
and  squabbled  to  their  hearts'  content,  without  annoying  any  one. 

The  sick  child  became  calmer  and  slept  restlessly,  waking  up  at 
intervals  to  cry. 

Rosina,  who  was  off  to  town,  promised  to  bring  up  some  medicine 
for  her.  However,  she  came  up  later  without  any,  she  had  forgotten 
it  ...  and  apologised. 

The  next  day  the  little  one  was  better.  I  went  down  to  get 
breakfast. 

Outside,  close  by  the  door,  sat  Signora  Rosa.  She  wore  a  checked 
petticoat  and  a  bright  pink  dressing  jacket.  Rosina  was  combing 
and  brushing  her  hair  with  the  dexterity  of  a  hairdresser,  at  the 
same  time  keeping  up  a  loud-voiced  conversation  with  Stefen  and 
Giuseppe,  who  had  passed  by  and  had  now  reached  the  gates. 

'Rosina,  where  are  my  eggs?'  I  asked,  when  I  could  not  find 
them. 

"There  are  no  eggs,'  said  Rosina,  'they  are  not  to  be  had/ 

'But  surely,  in  Campia — -' 

'No,'  said  Rosina. 

'And  where  are  my  other  things'  I  asked. 

'Other  things?'  repeated  Rosina,  affecting  surprise,  'you  never 
sent  a  message  by  Riccardo  about  anything.' 

'But,  Rosina,'  I  protested.  'You  know  you  always  get  bread 
and  eggs  and  butter  for  me  .  .  .* 


228  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

Rosina,  went  on  combing  Signora  Rosa's  long  dark  hair. 

'You'd  better  take  some  of  my  bread,'  she  said  at  last,  'you 
know,  in  the  basket  on  the  wall.' 

The  day  passed  peacefully.  The  children  played  by  the  spring 
down  in  the  valley,  and  after  dinner  Signora  Bianca  lay  down  to  rest. 
I  noticed  that  Rosina  had  no  difficulty  whatever  in  keeping  the 
children  quiet  during  that  time. 

•  •*•••• 

On  Sunday  there  were  great  rejoicings  hi  the  town.  It  was  the 
twenty-fifth  anniversary  that  the  priest  had  held  office,  and  the 
townspeople  had  collected  hundreds  of  lire  to  defray  the  cost  of  the 
festivities. 

In  the  morning  there  had  been  a  procession  to  the  church,  and  a 
magnificent  choir  took  part  in  the  service.  And  now  in  the  after- 
noon a  special  band  was  to  play  in  the  piazza,  and  later  in  the  evening 
there  would  be  fireworks  and  illuminations. 

In  Campia  these  festivities  were  looked  upon  with  little  favour. 
That  does  not  mean  that  the  villagers  did  not  go  down  to  the  town 
and  enjoy  the  music  and  the  illuminations — nearly  every  one  went. 
But  they  thought  it  wrong — wrong  in  principle  that  so  much  money 
should  be  spent  on  frivolity  when  the  villages  round  about  were 
suffering  heavily  from  the  hailstorms. 

Rosina,  Signora  Rosa,  Signora  Bianca,  and  all  the  children, 
except  Riccardo  and  Paolino,  had  gone  to  the  town  directly  after 
dinner.  The  boys  were  to  follow  in  the  evening. 

Together  with  my  little  girl  I  strolled  up  the  road.  The  wind 
fitfully  wafted  sounds  of  music  along  the  mountain  side.  Peasants 
were  hurrying  down  to  the  town,  eager  to  hear  the  band. 


SAN  LORENZO  AGAIN  229 

On  our  way  we  met  Riccardo,  dawdling  along  towards  the  village 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

'I'm  going  to  fetch  Minghi,'  he  informed  me,  'for  the  cow.' 
Minghi  was  always  called  in  when  the  cows  calved. 

'I  think  Minghi  must  be  in  the  town,'  I  answered.  'I  met  him 
going  down  about  two  hours  ago.  But  maybe  he's  home  again  by 
now.' 

'I'll  go  and  see.'    Riccardo  sauntered  on. 

'But  Riccardo,  you  ought  to  hurry ' 

'He,  he/  he  called  back  vacantly. 

I  hastened  to  San  Lorenzo.     Bortolo  was  running  between  the. 
cowshed  and  the  kitchen,  where  he  was  warming  some  food  for  the 
cow. 

'Bortolo,'  I  called,  'I  don't  believe  Minghi  is  in  the  village — he 
went  to  town  two  hours  ago.' 

'PerDiof  exclaimed  Bortolo,  'and  I've  just  sent  Riccardo  to 
Campia.  Paolino,  Paolino  ! '  he  called. 

Paolino  emerged  from  the  cowshed. 

'Minghi  is  probably  in  the  town ' 

Paolino  did  not  wait  to  be  told,  but  tossing  off  his  zupei,  ran 
barefoot  down  the  path  and  on  to  the  town. 

Bortolo  was  greatly  agitated.    We  entered  the  cowshed  together. 

'The  poor  animal — the  poor  animal — she  is  suffering,'  ejaculated 
Bortolo.  He  stroked  her  gently.  'The  food  must  be  hot  by  now,' 
he  added,  and  hurried  restlessly  to  the  kitchen. 

Presently  he  returned  with  the  food  and  tried  to  coax  the  cow 
to  drink.  But  the  poor  beast  would  not. 

'Oh,  she  suffers,  she  suffers,'  exclaimed  Bortolo,  nearly  breaking 
I.P.  Q 


23o  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

his  heart  over  her.  The  perspiration  trickled  down  his  face.  'My 
poor  cow  ...  if  only  Minghi  would  come.'  He  glanced  through 
the  door  at  the  village  road.  'Why  doesn't  Riccardo  come  back?' 

It  was  nearly  an  hour  since  I  had  seen  him  on  the  road.  I 
wondered  how  long  Paolino  would  take  to  get  to  the  town  and  find 
Minghi. 

Bortolo  went  about  restlessly,  lamenting  over  his  cow.  I  never 
saw  a  man  so  upset.  Perhaps  in  remote  ages  his  ancestors  worshipped 
the  cow — that  might  account  for  his  agitation  now.  I  hardly  believe 
he  would  have  fussed  so  much  over  his  wife.  Ah,  he  grieved  for 
his  cow,  his  kind  heart  bled  for  her.  He  stood  stroking  her  back  and 
soothing  her  with  his  voice.  'The  poor  thing — she  suffers,'  he  kept 
on  saying.  The  cow  held  her  head  low  and  moaned. 

Just  then  I  caught  sight  of  Paolino  and  Minghi  coming  down  the 
path  as  fast  as  they  could  walk. 

'I  found  .  .  .  him  ...  in  ...  a  ...  cafe",'  Paolino  called,  out 
of  breath. 

'You  never  got  as  far  as  the  town?'  I  asked,  thinking  he  must 
have  met  Minghi  on  the  road. 

'Yes,  I  did,  I  believe  I  got  down  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour.' 

It  was  certainly  a  record.  Bortolo  might  well  be  proud  of  his 
eldest  son.  But  where  was  Riccardo?  He  was  in  the  village  playing 
ball  with  some  other  boys.  Evidently  he  did  not  think  it  necessary 
to  come  home  to  tell  his  father  Minghi  was  not  there.  He  did  not 
return  before  it  was  time  for  him  to  go  down  to  see  the  fireworks. 

The  following  evening  I  went  through  the  accounts  with  Rosina. 
'Why,'  I  asked,  'have  you  charged  me  hah*  a  lire  for  a  kilo  of 


SAN  LORENZO  AGAIN  231 

bread,  when  you  know  the  price  has  been  considerably  lower  for 
some  time?' 

For  a  moment  she  was  taken  aback. 

'I  have  charged  half  a  lire  because  that  is  a  round  sum,'  she 
answered,  'besides  there  are  always  things  I  don't  put  down.  .  .  . 
For  example,  matches.' 

'Matches  are  included  in  furnished  rooms,'  I  suggested. 

'I  never  thought  a  lady  like  you  would  make  a  fuss  about  a 
halfpenny.' 

'I  would  not  do  so  if  you  had  sent  up  the  full  amount  of  bread.' 

Rosina  did  not  answer. 

This  was  the  point,  I  believe,  where  the  ladies  Rosina  was  used 
to  have  dealings  with  became  angry  and  even  abusive.  Then  she 
could  get  angry  too  and  let  off  steam  in  a  regular  row.  But  being 
in  the  wrong,  she  could  not  very  well  begin  to  quarrel — however 
much  she  ached  to.  She  did  not  know  what  to  say,  so  she  said  nothing. 
Now,  if  only  I  had  called  her  a  thief — or  a  cheat. 

I  said  nothing  further  about  the  bread,  but  went  into  one  or 
two  other  matters  that  had  aroused  my  suspicions.  Then  I  watched 
her  refill  my  oil-bottle  and  found  that  it  did  not  contain  as  much 
as  she  had  been  charging  me  for.  Silently  she  submitted  to  my 
altering  the  price  in  the  book. 

I  left  her  and  hurried  off  to  Campia,  before  she  could  find  words 
to  express  her  feelings. 

After  calling  at  the  inn  to  ask  Teresina  to  have  some  supper 
ready  for  me  in  half  an  hour,  I  went  off  to  find  some  eggs.  I  had 
no  difficulty  in  procuring  some.  The  fact  was  Rosina  would  not 
pay  full  market  price  to  the  village  people.  She  beat  down  the 


232  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

prices  and,  having  secured  the  eggs,  sold  them  to  her  lodgers  at  a 
handsome  profit.  Campia  women  preferred  to  take  the  eggs  to  town, 
rather  than  be  the  means  of  putting  a  few  pence  into  Rosina's  pocket. 

I  went  back  to  the  inn.  Teresina  had  spread  a  white  cloth  at 
the  end  of  one  of  the  long  tables  and  laid  it  for  three.  She  took  it 
for  granted  that  we  should  have  supper  together,  and  put  off  her 
own  meal  until  it  should  suit  me  to  turn  up.  We  sat  down  together, 
she  and  Nino  on  one  side  of  the  table,  I  on  the  other. 

The  story  of  the  swing  had  already  penetrated  to  the  village  in 
detail,  and  Teresina  was  eager  to  give  me  her  views  on  the  subject. 

'Rosina  had  no  business  to  treat  you  like  that,'  she  said.  'It 
was  wrong  in  the  first  place  to  put  the  swing  under  your  window. 
We  all  remarked  that  you  wouldn't  like  it.  As  for  the  children.  .  .  . 
As  though  Rosina  didn't  know  how  to  keep  children  quiet ! ' 

'  Per  Dio,  she  need  only  have  appeared  at  the  door  with  a  broom- 
stick/ said  Nino. 

'You  would  have  been  in  the  right  if  you  had  sent  her  straight 
back  to  the  town  for  the  medicine  she  forgot ! ' 

'She  ought  to  know  better  than  to  disobey  you,  when  you  are 
the  padrona.' 

I  felt  I  had  quite  underrated  my  powers  as  padrona. 

'And  how  about  you,'  I  asked  Nino,  'are  you  going  to  America?' 

'Signora,  I  have  seen  the  agent,  and  it  is  quite  impossible  for  me 
to  go  like  the  others  do.  But  I  can  go  to  Canada.  They  aren't  so 
particular  there  whether  one  has  two  eyes  or  not.  Once  in  Canada 
I  can  work  my  way  down  to  Buffalo  and  cross  the  frontier  into  the 
States.  But  go  I  shall — even  if  it  had  to  be  first  class  on  a  liner. 
It  would  pay  me,'  he  added  optimistically. 


SAN  LORENZO  AGAIN  233 

'How  soon  will  you  go?' 

'Next  month.' 

'And  your  wife?' 

'She  and  Battisti  will  come  later,  as  soon  as  I  have  saved  the 
money  for  their  tickets.' 

'Aren't  you  pleased?'  I  asked  Teresina. 

She  smiled  at  me. 

'You  won't  like  it  when  you  are  there,'  I  said,  giving  her  the 
four  palanche  she  charged  for  as  much  minestra  as  I  could  eat. 

'They  all  write  home  and  say  it's  horrid,'  said  Teresina.  'Poor 
Mrs  Cominelli  is  very  unhappy.  She,  who  is  used  to  living  on  a 
mountain,  is  now  at  the  bottom  of  an  ugly  valley  .  .  .  with  no  view 
at  all  and  hardly  any  air  to  breathe.  She  says  it's  hateful,  and  every 
day  she  thinks  of  Campia  and  longs  to  be  back.  .  .  .' 

'How  about  your  licence?' 

'Rosina  wishes  it  to  be  transferred  back  to  her  at  the  new 
year.' 

'What  a  relief  to  my  mind !  She  could  never  go  on  selling  wine 
like  that  without  being  caught  sooner  or  later.' 

It  was  time  for  me  to  go  home  and  I  hurried  through  the  tunnel. 
Turning  sharply  into  the  road  I  nearly  ran  into  Minghi's  plain 
daughter.  I  made  the  best  of  this  opportunity  to  tell  her  of  the 
limping  donkey,  and  the  more  I  said  the  bigger  her  eyes  grew. 

'But,  signora,  the  donkey  eats  just  the  same,  whether  she  limps 
or  not,'  she  excused  herself,  '  and  she  must  work  for  her  keep  ! ' 

'You  don't  work  if  you  have  a  sore  foot,'  I  answered,  'yet  you 
have  a  good  appetite.' 

'But,  signora — I  am  a  human  being/ 


234  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

It  was  twilight  when  I  reached  the  gates  of  San  Lorenzo.  Stand- 
ing on  one  side  of  the  road  was  Gheco,  on  the  other  two  women  sat 
on  the  grass.  One  was  elderly,  the  other  held  a  hat  over  her  face, 
obviously  to  hide  it.  Could  it  be  Apollonia? 

The  gate  slammed  behind  me  and  I  stumbled  down  the  uneven 
path. 

Bortolo  had  carried  the  kitchen  table  out  into  the  garden  and 
had  put  the  lamp  on  it.  He  was  reading  the  newspaper.  Rosina  was 
sewing.  The  dog  ran  barking  to  meet  me,  and  Bortolo  looked  up 
to  see  who  was  coming. 

Rosina,  who  had  been  thinking  matters  over,  had  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  it  was  best  to  keep  in  with  me.  So  she  was  very 
amiable.  In  order  to  demonstrate  that  she  still  cared  for  my 
interests,  she  had  asked  Cristofolo,  who  had  passed  by,  to  inquire 
down  at  the  post  office  if  any  letters  had  come  for  me. 

'Where  are  the  boys?'  I  asked. 

'They  are  in  bed,'  she  answered. 

'So  early?' 

'Yes,  signora,  Bortolo  gave  Riccardo  a  good  beating.'  She  sighed. 
'He  heard  him  swearing — using  the  most  wicked  words.' 

Bortolo  seemed  very  interested  in  the  newspaper. 

I  told  her  of  the  trio  I  had  seen  by  the  gate. 

'  Ah  ! '  she  cried,  with  sudden  interest.  '  Apollonia,  of  course. 
So  she  has  come  back  and  her  mother  with  her,  I  suppose.  .  .  .  She 
ran  away  yesterday,  because  La  Macuccia  was  more  unbearable  than 
usual,  and  scolded  her.  Apollonia,  who  is  young,  answered  back. 
They  had  words,  and  Apollonia  put  on  her  hat  and  just  marched 
home.' 


SAN  LORENZO  AGAIN  235 

'And?'  I  asked. 

'Gheco  went  all  the  way  after  her  to-day,  to  make  peace  and 
bring  her  back.  ...  So  Apollonia  has  decided  to  return.  How  any 
one  can  live  with  La  Macuccia  I  don't  know.  Do  you  know  they 
only  pay  that  girl  five  lire  (45.  2d.)  a  month,  beyond  her  keep?' 

'Is  she  going  to  marry  Gheco?'  I  asked. 

Rosina  shrugged  her  shoulders.  '  Apollonia's  mother  isn't?  much 
in  favour  of  it.  She  thinks  her  daughter  might  do  better.' 

'And  Apollonia?' 

'  She  says  she  likes  Gheco  and  wishes  to  marry  him — but  that  she 
cannot  disobey  her  mother.' 

Oh,  dear  !  That  was  like  Angelina,  who  wouldn't  talk  to  Raimondo 
because  her  mother  did  not  like  it.  I  wondered  whether  the  women 
folk  were  stirred  by  passions  as  deep  and  strong  as  the  men. 

At  ten  o'clock  we  went  up  to  bed  as  usual.  Shortly  after  midnight 
I  woke  up. 

Some  one  was  banging  at  the  front  door.  There  was  a  pause, 
then  renewed  banging  and  a  great  deal  of  talking.  I  got  out  of  bed 
and  leant  out  of  the  window,  which  was  at  the  side  of  the  house. 
I  could  hear  the  voices  more  distinctly.  The  knocking  vibrated 
through  the  house. 

'They  are — ostia — either  asleep — ostia — or  dead — ostia,' said  some 
one  in  a  drunken  voice. 

'Ostia — knock  again,'  said  some  one  else. 

There  was  more  banging,  followed  by  a  dead  silence.  I  wondered 
why  Rosina  did  not  get  up  and  find  out  what  it  was  all  about.  Of 
course  she  must  have  heard  the  noise. 

I  went  back  to  bed. 


236  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

Away  they  banged  at  the  door,  stopping  every  now  and  then  to 
argue.  One  was  for  going  home,  but  the  other  two  would  not  hear 
of  it,  and  urged  each  other  to  bang  at  the  door  with  renewed  vigour. 

At  last,  after  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  curiosity  got  the  better  of 
Rosina.  She  slipped  a  dress  over  her  nightgown  and,  going  out  on 
to  the  balcony,  asked  what  they  wanted. 

It  was  Cristofolo's  familiar  voice  that  answered. 

'I  came  to  say — ostia — that  I  called  in  at  the  post  office — ostia 
— as  you  asked  me  to — ostia — and  that  there  were  not  any  letters 
for  the  signora.' 

Rosina's  answer  was  hardly  polite. 

The  other  two  at  once  began  clamouring  for  something  to  drink. 
They  were  so  thirsty  they  couldn't  walk  on  to  Campia — just  a  little 
wine? 

Rosina  referred  them  to  the  rain-water  tank;  but  that  would 
not  do  at  all. 

Cristofolo  interrupted.  'I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  I  have  been 
to  the  post  office — ostia — but  that  there  were  no  letters  for  the 
signora/ 

'  I  heard  you/  shouted  Rosina  impatiently.    '  Now  be  off  ! ' 

But  they  wouldn't  budge.  They  tried  to  wheedle  her  into  coming 
downstairs  to  open  the  door.  They  argued  with  her,  but  she  wouldn't 
let  them  in.  Safe  upon  the  balcony  she  shouted  at  them  and 
insulted  them. 

What  matter  the  insults,  thought  the  thirsty  men,  if  we  can  only 
get  her  to  open  the  door? 

In  the  end,  after  they  had  all  had  a  good  shout  and  thoroughly 
awakened  all  the  inmates  of  the  house,  Rosina  gave  in.  She  lit  the 


SAN  LORENZO   AGAIN  237 

lamp  and  opened  the  door.  She  might  have  done  so  at  once,  because 
it  always  ended  that  way.  She  couldn't  resist  the  temptation  of 
making  a  palanca,  besides,  the  men  were  so  obstinate.  They  wouldn't 
go.  She  couldn't  have  the  door  banged  all  night. 

For  fully  half  an  hour  they  sat  drinking  in  the  kitchen,  carrying 
on  a  most  animated  conversation.  At  last  they  went  off,  talking 
loudly,  and  for  a  long  while  we  could  hear  their  voices  in  the  distance. 

Rosina,  with  a  great  deal  of  sighing  over  the  hard  lot  of  those 
forced  to  get  up  at  night,  went  back  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE   LAST  DAYS 

SIGNORA  ROSA  and  Signora  Bianca  promenaded  about  San  Lorenzo, 
usually  deep  in  conversation.  They  found  me  very  poor  company. 
Our  interests  were  widely  different,  and  they  were  disappointed  to 
find  that  their  favourite  topic  scarcely  interested  me.  Fashion  was 
what  they  talked  about,  fashions,  hats  and  the  cost  of  their  clothes. 
Signora  Bianca's  little  girl  wore  a  hat  that  cost  seventeen  lire.  Signora 
Rosa  had  only  given  fifteen  and  a  hah*  lire  for  her  child's  hat — but 
she  outdid  Signora  Bianca's  extravagances  when  it  came  to  jackets. 
I  do  not  know  what  effect  it  would  have  had  on  either  lady  if  I  had 
divulged  that  my  aged  hat  had  cost  only  two  and  a  half  lire.  They 
thought  me  odd  enough  as  it  was.  My  interest  in  the  peasants  was 
quite  incomprehensible  to  them,  and  they  looked  at  my  sketches  and 
did  not  understand  them  at  all.  They  liked  sentimental  and  romantic 
works  of  art,  such  as  ladies  should  paint. 

They  did  not  care  for  the  peasants,  whom  they  considered  far 
beneath  them.  In  fact,  their  mode  of  living  seemed  to  aim  at  accen- 
tuating the  differences  between  themselves  and  the  lower  classes. 
The  peasants  looked  healthy,  sunburnt,  and  vigorous.  The  signori 
were  languid  and  cultivated  pale  complexions.  They  carefully  screened 

the  sunshine  from  their  houses,  closing  the  big  shutters  early  in  the 

238 


THE   LAST  DAYS  239 

day.  In  these  sombre  sunless  rooms  they  lived,  taking  but  little 
exercise  out  of  doors.  No  wonder  they  looked  pale  and  deli- 
cate. 

The  four  children  were  undersized,  giving  the  impression  that 
they  had  grown  up  in  the  dark  and  had  been  unwisely  fed.  At  San 
Lorenzo  they  ran  about  in  the  sun  and  grew  brown  and  a  little  sturdy. 
Rosina  looked  after  them  well.  They  were  fed  rather  differently 
from  peasant  children,  going  to  the  other  extreme,  which  was  perhaps 
as  unfortunate.  They  were  given  a  maximum  of  meat  and  a 
minimum  of  vegetables  and  bread,  and  of  course  a  lot  of  wine.  Rosina 
insisted  on  the  children  eating  polenta  with  their  meat,  which,  I  think, 
did  a  great  deal  to  pick  up  their  constitutions.  They  were  never 
given  puddings  of  any  description. 

The  signori  had  none  of  the  easy-going  pleasant  manners  which 
made  the  peasants  so  attractive.  They  were  hampered  with  formal 
and  chilling  conventionalities  which  went  well  in  harmony  with 
their  sunless  rooms.  It  was  in  them  to  be  hard  and  selfish.  Hedged 
in  with  artificiality,  and  brought  up  in  an  atmosphere  of  false  values, 
they  had  little  experience  of  things  that  matter — of  real  life.  No 
wonder  they  understood  the  peasants  as  little  as  the  peasants  under- 
stood them. 

I  once  met  an  elderly  commercial  traveller  at  San  Lorenzo.  He 
was  not  at  all  like  these  ladies.  He  was  charming,  his  manners  were 
delightful,  and  he  was  full  of  life  and  energy.  In  him  the  best 
qualities  of  the  signer  and  peasant  were  united.  He  was  an 
enlightened  and  highly-educated  man.  His  son  was  a  doctor  in  Milan. 
I  cannot  believe  that  he  was  an  isolated  type,  but  I  met  so  many 
people  like  Signer  Bianca  and  Signora  Rosa  and  the  Signer  of  the 


24o  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

mountain,  that  that  type  must  be  the  more  representative  of 
the  signori  who  came  in  touch  with  the  peasants  in  those 
parts. 

Signora  Bianca  was  very  pretty,  and  her  summer  frocks  were 
dainty  and  cool-looking.  She  was  quite  a  picture  sitting  under  the 
olive-trees  with  her  gay  parasol.  Signora  Rosa  joined  her,  and  they 
sat  wondering  about  the  English  signora. 

It  was  all  very  well  for  Rosina  to  insist  on  the  eccentric  millionaire 
story.  The  two  ladies  knew  better.  Eccentric — perhaps,  but 
wealthy — no.  That  tale  was  all  very  well  for  the  country  people 
who  were  ignorant  and  would  believe  anything. 

The  peasants  had  accepted  us  and  put  a  very  simple  construction 
on  our  doings.  They  noticed  that  I  did  not  wear  grand  clothes  nor 
live  in  grand  style.  Nevertheless,  they  firmly  believed  that  I  was 
an  heiress. 

When  I  went  to  live  in  the  mountain  hut  where  there  was  a 
minimum  of  comfort,  and  to  sleep  on  hay,  Gioan  remonstrated  with 
me.  In  glowing  colours  he  described  how  he  would  spend  a  holiday 
if  he  were  rich.  I  pointed  out  to  him  that  what  I  wanted  was  a 
change,  and  what  change  could  be  greater  from  the  wild  whirl  of 
dissipation  he  pictured  my  life  in  England  to  be — than  the  quiet  of 
the  mountain?  But  Gioan  simply  would  not  believe  any  lady  would 
live  in  a  mountain  hut  from  choice.  No,  no,  he  shook  his  head.  He 
had  only  wanted  to  sound  me  himself,  but  he  knew  quite  well  the  true 
motives  that  drove  me  to  it.  That  had  been  decided  in  the  village 
long  ago,  and  had  been  whispered  from  door  to  door. 

'Signora  Antonia  is  doing  penance.' 

That  accounted  for  everything  to  the  peasant  mind. 


THE  LAST  DAYS  241 

'If  the  signora  does  not  wear  stockings,  it  is  not  that  she  cannot 
afford  them/  Ghita  reassured  her  friends. 

One  morning  Signora  Bianca  went  down  to  the  town  to  do  some 
shopping,  and  buy  some  eggs.  She  returned  about  an  hour  before 
dinner  time,  rather  hot  from  her  walk,  and  sat  down  in  the  kitchen 
to  undo  her  parcels.  One  was  a  large  tin  box  containing  about  twenty 
new-laid  eggs.  The  children  crowded  round  her  and  she  distributed 
the  eggs  as  if  they  had  been  so  many  sweets.  She  gave  one  to  my 
little  girl,  and  offered  one  to  me.  The  children  ran  joyfully  into  the 
garden  sucking  their  eggs. 

Rosina  was  astounded  at  such  extravagance. 

I  went  out  into  the  garden  and  up  to  Campia. 

The  women  at  the  fontana  were  getting  ready  to  go  home  as  I 
passed  by,  hanging  the  dripping  clothes  on  to  both  ends  of  a  long 
stick  which  was  carried  balanced  on  the  shoulder.  In  this  way  the 
washing  was  taken  up  to  the  village,  where  it  was  dried  and  ironed. 
The  linen  was  never  boiled,  but  put  in  a  large  wooden  wash  tub.  A 
piece  of  sheeting  was  spread  over  the  top  and  a  spadeful  of  wood-ash 
put  on  it.  Boiling  water  was  scooped  over  the  ashes  and  drained 
down  through  the  sheeting,  running  out  of  a  bung  hole  at  the  bottom. 
Afterwards  the  linen  was  rinsed  and  hung  up  to  dry,  looking  as  white 
as  snow. 

I  strolled  on  up  the  road  and  passed  an  old  woman  who  saluted 
me  by  raising  her  straw  hat.  A  few  sad  plants  which  the  hailstorm 
had  not  quite  spoilt  looked  lonely  on  the  terraces.  Bruised  bunches 
of  grapes  hung  on  the  vines.  Higher  up  at  the  tap  in  the  wall,  children 
were  filling  water  bottles.  Campia  people  always  fetched  their 


242  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

drinking  water  from  this  tap,  although  it  was  much  farther  to  walk 
than  the  village  fountain. 

A  few  men  were  squatting  in  the  road  outside  Giacomina's  house. 

I  went  straight  to  Cristofolo's,  because  I  wished  to  say  good-bye 
to  Dominica  and  her  husband  and  Teschini,  who  were  leaving  on  the 
morrow. 

Poor  Anetta  had  gone  away.  After  suffering  agonising  pains  in 
her  eyes  she  had  completely  lost  her  sight,  and  the  skill  of  the  doctors 
and  the  specialist  to  whom  Dominica  sent  her,  were  quite  unable 
to  restore  it.  She  was  cared  for  now  in  an  institution  in  the  town, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  Cristofolo  was  master  in  his  own 
house. 

I  mounted  the  stairs  and  entered  the  kitchen,  which  was  filled 
with  people  sitting  round  the  walls. 

Bigi  was  gently  playing  the  mandoline  to  Tona's  accompaniment. 
Tona  sat  on  the  hearthstone,  Maria  beside  him.  Her  husband, 
Stefen,  sat  in  the  chimney  corner,  Giuseppe's  fair-haired  nephew 
by  his  side.  Big  Giuseppe  sat  opposite  them,  solemnly  smoking  his 
long-stemmed  pipe.  Bigi,  with  his  mandoline,  and  Giacomina,  who 
was  knitting,  were  on  the  maize-meal  chest.  Julietta  sat  on  a  chair 
by  the  door.  Dominica,  between  her  adoring  husband  and  old  Cristo- 
folo, was  listening  to  Giuseppe's  loud-voiced  wife,  eager  to  hear  the 
latest  feat  of  her  enterprising  baby.  Several  of  Giuseppe's  elder 
children  were  there,  too.  A  chair  was  offered  me  close  to  Julietta 
and  Teschini. 

We  talked  gaily  together,  with  the  music  as  a  sort  of  background. 
One  of  Cristofolo's  granddaughters  handed  round  glasses  of  vermouth, 
pressing  the  reluctant  to  drink.  It  was  good  manners  to  be  reluctant 


THE  LAST  DAYS  243 

Dominica  had  engaged  this  girl  as  servant  and  was  taking  her  to 
Florence.  The  girl  looked  a  little  flushed  and  excited.  .  . 

Every  one  was  full  of  the  latest  news.  Dominica  had  bought 
a  piece  of  land  on  the  Ridge  of  Houses.  So  that  old  site  would  be 
used  again.  She  was  going  to  build  a  house  on  it,  in  which  to  spend 
future  summer  holidays.  There  would  be  no  lack  of  stones  for  building 
purposes  and  the  fontana  would  be  quite  close.  But  it  was  uncom- 
fortably near  the  edge  of  a  precipice.  The  whole  plot,  which  had 
been  bought  from  Agostino,  cost  twelve  pounds. 

Those  friendly  to  Agostino  said  the  place  was  worth  double  the 
money,  others  said  it  was  outrageously  dear.  Dominica,  however, 
was  well  satisfied. 

At  first  she  had  tried  to  buy  a  plot  on  the  mountain.  The  first 
place  selected  had  been  at  such  a  distance  from  the  village  that  it 
had  been  rejected  as  too  inconvenient.  I  knew  the  plot  well,  I 
should  like  to  build  a  house  there  myself.  It  was  just  below  the 
summit,  a  long  level  stretch  of  grass  fringed  with  beech-trees. 

After  that  Dominica  went  to  Filip,  but  he  flatly  refused  to  sell. 
No  Di  Marchesi  sold  land,  it  was  his  policy  to  accumulate  it.  Next 
Negretti  was  approached,  but  his  daughter,  the  cross-eyed  milliner, 
wanted  the  coveted  plot  herself.  Finding  no  other  site  that  pleased, 
Dominica  looked  elsewhere  and  at  last  decided  on  the  Ridge  of 
Houses.  From  a  practical  point  of  view  it  was  by  far  the  best  place. 

Teschini  had  taken  no  part  in  our  conversation,  but  sat  silent 
beside  me,  deep  in  thought.  Suddenly  he  stood  up,  commanding 
our  attention  by  his  attitude. 

'My  dear  friends,'  he  began,  and  we  all  stopped  chattering  to 
fix  our  eyes  on  him. 


244  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

'My  dear  friends,'  he  repeated,  as  soon  as  we  were  all  quiet,  'I 
am  leaving  yon  to-morrow,  and  I  want  to  say  a  few  words  before  I 
go.  I  want  to  tell  you  how  much  I  appreciate  and  honour  the  good 
people  of  Campia.  Listen.  .  .  .  When  I  left  Florence  I  was  a  butter- 
fly— a  butterfly  with  a  broken  wing.  For  three  months  I  wandered, 
vainly  trying  to  ease  the  pain.  But  to  no  purpose,  until  by  chance 
I  came  to  join  my  friends  here.  ...  In  this  little  village — this  gem 
of  the  mountain,  I  began  to  live  again  and  to  wish  to  go  on  living. 
Neither  the  mountain — the  clear  air — the  polenta,  nor  the  fine  views 
gave  me  this  renewed  life.  No — it  was  you — you  yourselves.  .  .  . 
From  the  first  I  felt  I  was  amongst  friends.  Although  I  had  no 
claim  on  you,  you  overflowed  with  good  will.  Many  the  happy  hours 
we  have  spent  together  when  the  day's  work  was  done.  I  passed 
among  you  in  the  fields  and  saw  that  your  life  was  ceaseless  toil  and 
not  very  much  to  show  for  it — that  made  me  admire  your  tenacity 
and  courage.  .  .  .  Then  the  hailstorm  came.  ...  I  saw  the  hail 
and  the  fields  afterwards.  .  .  .  My  friends,  had  those  fields  been 
mine,  I  would  have  been  crushed  with  grief  and  despair.  But  that 
is  not  your  way.  The  day  after  the  storm  you  were  at  work  as  early 
as  usual,  thinking,  probably,  of  next  year.  The  following  Sunday 
you  actually  danced  and  were  merry.  Yet  there  was  not  one  amongst 
you  who  doubted  that  the  winter  will  be  a  terribly  hard  one  to  face. 
.  .  .  And  there  will  be  some  of  you  forced  to  go  to  America.  ...  I 
envy  you  the  spirit  with  which  you  have  met  this  disaster,  your 
patience  and  your  eagerness  to  go  on  working  and  to  make  the  best 
of  it.  It  is  your  example  that  has  strengthened  me.  I  thought  to 
cure  my  wound  by  light  living,  but  it  healed  as  I  gained  peace  and 
courage.  .  .  .  My  friends — let  me  once  again  thank  you  and  tell 


THE  LAST  DAYS  245 

you  that  never,  as  long  as  I  live,  will  I  forget  my  friends  in 
Campia.' 

Teschini  sat  down. 

'Thank  you— thank  you,  many  thanks,'  murmured  the  listeners 
round  the  wall.  We  were  all  much  moved. 

'Signor  Teschini/  I  said,  leaning  towards  him,  'had  I  known 
what  you  were  going  to  say,  I  would  have  asked  you  to  include  me 
in  your  speech.  Not  a  word  you  have  said  but  it  had  an  echo  in  my 
heart.  I,  too,  have  learnt  a  lesson  here.' 

'Aren't  they  splendid?'  he  asked,  and  then  shook  his  head,  as 
if  the  thought  pained  him.  'I  am  an  Italian  myself,  but  yet  I  had 
no  idea  that  such  people  were  to  be  found  in  Italy.  I  was  born  in 
Rome.  It  has  been  a  revelation  to  me.' 

It  was  some  little  time  before  conversation  was  in  full  swing. 
Bigi  played  several  gay  tunes  and  Giuseppe  was  pressed  to  sing,  but 
refused. 

Teschini  stood  up  again  and  we  looked  at  him  expectantly. 

'  I  should  like  to  say  a  few  more  words — for  the  Signora  Antonia,' 
he  said,  to  my  astonishment.  'She  is  not  able  to  make  a  speech 
herself  in  our  language  nor  is  it  necessary  for  her  to  do  so,  for  what 
she  wishes  to  say  you  have  doubtless  all  read  in  the  eloquence  of  her 
eyes.  Like  me,  she  came  to  Campia  with  a  broken  wing — like  me 
she  has  grown  strong  here.  She  wishes  me  to  thank  you  for  all  your 
kindness  and  hospitality,  and  to  tell  you  that  in  her  heart  she  will 
never  forget  Campia  nor  the  example  of  the  good  people  here.  On 
your  behalf  I  will  say  that  there  is  no  one  who  will  not  be  sorry  when 
she  leaves,  or  who  does  not  hope  she  will  come  back  again.  Pleased 
that  she  should  have  been  happy  here,  it  has  been  a  joy  to  us  to 


246  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

know  a  signora  who  is  so  beautiful  and  intelligent,  and  who  has  been 
the  friend  of  every  one.    In  the  name  of  Campia — viva  la  signora  ! ' 

•  ••*••• 

The  next  day  was  Sunday.  Some  of  the  men  were  playing  la  balla 
in  the  village  street,  and  most  of  the  other  people  were  out  in  the 
road  talking.  A  number  were  up  at  the  fountain  sitting  on  the 
stones  just  outside  Giacomina's  courtyard,  or  squatting,  Eastern 
fashion,  in  the  road.  A  second  group  was  outside  the  Di  Marchesi's 
shed.  Angelina  and  Gioan  were  there,  and  Bigi  and  several  others, 
myself  amongst  them.  Some  sat  on  doorsteps,  others  on  stones, 
and  a  few  on  the  ground.  We  were  all  talking  at  once  about  nothing 
in  particular. 

Gioan  was  playing  with  Biscotti's  baby,  which  a  child  had  been 
carrying.  He  held  the  baby  on  his  knee  and  tried  to  make  it  smile, 
but  it  looked  at  him  with  big  serious  eyes.  He  was  very  gentle  and 
sweet  with  it. 

Bigi,  who  had  been  sitting  opposite,  crossed  the  road  and  sat 
down  on  the  ground  beside  me. 

Costante  from  an  adjacent  doorstep  began  to  sing  'Tripoli.' 

'What  did  you  think  about  the  acquisition  of  Tripoli  ? '  I  asked  Bigi. 

'Only  that  it  wasn't  worth  the  number  of  lives  sacrificed,'  he 
answered.  "The  men  that  have  been  there  say  there  is  nothing  but 
sand.' 

'If  you  dig  the  sand  away  there  is  plenty  of  soil  underneath,' 
said  Gioan,  'but  the  first  wind  blows  the  sand  back  again.  So  I've 
been  told.' 

'No  doubt  our  statesmen  know  to  what  end  it  was  acquired,' 
remarked  Bigi,  'but  they  do  not  let  us  into  those  secrets.' 


THE  LAST  DAYS  247 

'Gaetano  hated  the  place/  put  in  Teresina. 

'Signora/  said  Bigi,  'I  hear  there  has  been  warfare  even  at  San 
Lorenzo.  You  have  fallen  out  with  Rosina.  I  am  not  surprised.' 

'No/  I  answered,  'she  made  me  very  angry/ 

'I  only  just  heard  about  it.  You  know,  it  would  be  a  good  thing 
if  Bortolo  gave  Rosina  a  sound  beating  sometimes.  It's  the  only 
way  to  keep  a  woman  like  that  reasonable.  But  if  anything  further 
happens  to  make  it  unpleasant  for  you  at  San  Lorenzo,  we  could 
always  put  you  up  in  our  house.  Now  that  Dominica  has  gone,  there 
is  plenty  of  room/ 

'Thank  you,  Bigi/  I  said,  'that  is  very  kind  of  you,  but  you 
know  we  are  leaving  to-morrow/ 

'So  people  have  been  saying,  but  I  did  not  know  that  it  was 
true.  I  was  afraid  that  Rosina  was  being  unpleasant  and  that  you 
did  not  know  where  to  turn  to  for  a  night's  lodging/ 

Two  strangers  came  in  sight  beyond  the  fountain.  As  they  were 
not  peasants  but  signori,  all  conversation  ceased.  The  men  playing 
la  balla  waited. 

The  strangers  were  tourists,  a  lady  and  a  gentleman,  dressed  as 
only  German  tourists  know  how  to  dress.  We  sat  silent  as  they  came, 
each  assuming  the  mask  of  cold  indifference  with  which  the  peasant 
greets  a  stranger  of  the  upper  class.  I  felt  I  must  have  acquired  that 
look  as  well.  .  .  . 

They  passed  by  and  until  out  of  earshot  we  remained  passive. 
Gioan,  without  moving,  broke  the  silence. 

'Tudesg/  he  said  contemptuously.     That  means  'Germans/ 

I  remembered  my  first  walk  through   Campia  and  how  those 

indifferent  looks  had  chilled  and  even  frightened  me.     With  what 
I.P.  R  2 


248  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

little  confidence  I  had  gone  to  the  dance  at  the  inn.  Things  were 
certainly  different  now.  I  was  a  friend  and  might  sit  and  talk  in 
the  street.  No  one  scooted  off  when  I  came  ;  on  the  contrary,  some- 
times more  would  come  if  they  saw  me  and  we  would  be  quite  a 
party. 

But  it  needed  a  great  deal  of  tact  and  patience  to  become  so 
intimate.  After  all,  what  did  I  know  about  them?  It  was  very 
little.  I  was  on  the  threshold  and  now  I  was  leaving — to  go  back 
to  England. 

Ghita  came  down  the  street  in  her  dignified  manner. 

'Si'ora,'  she  shouted  at  me,  'there  will  be  dancing  to-night,  call 
in  for  me  on  your  way  up/ 

•  •»•••• 

Ghita  was  waiting  in  the  street  when  I  came,  and  emerged  from 
one  of  the  shadows.  We  walked  along  arm  in  arm.  It  was  pitch 
dark.  Ghita,  who  ought  to  have  been  familiar  with  the  uneven  street, 
stumbled  frequently.  I  clung  to  her  arm  and  we  laughed  together. 

We  turned  into  the  Piazza..  From  the  dimly-lighted  inn  could 
be  heard  the  voices  of  men  playing  niurra.  A  boy  hung  out  of  the 
window  and  gazed  into  the  blackness. 

Crossing  over  to  the  side  of  the  church,  Ghita  led  me  up  some 
steps  and  along  a  winding  passage.  It  brought  us  into  a  large  and 
very  long  kitchen.  An  old  man  and  an  old  woman  were  sitting 
peacefully  on  either  side  of  the  hearth.  Ten  years  ago,  the  old  man 
had  spent  two  years  in  America.  His  aged  wife  was  as  lively  and 
as  amusing  as  her  brother  Cristofolo.  Her  only  sister  had  been 
Nino's  mother. 

We  were  among  the  first-comers,  but  the  room  filled  rapidly. 


THE  LAST  DAYS  249 

Giacomi  and  Giacom  came  with  mandoline  and  'cello.  Tona,  who 
had  promised  to  play,  was  not  to  be  found.  Toni  had  gone  to  the 
town  and  might  come  later. 

Some  one  was  sent  to  look  for  Tona. 

Presently  some  one  else  was  sent  to  look  for  Tona. 

A  stranger  came  into  the  room,  a  tall,  dark,  and  very  ugly  man. 
He  was  a  peasant  just  back  from  a  fifteen  years'  stay  in  America. 
He  still  suffered  from  the  hysteria  of  home-coming.  The  greater 
part  of  the  day  he  had  spent  at  the  inn,  drinking  copiously  of 
Teresina's  best  wine  at  one  lire  the  bottle.  But  why  he  chanced  on 
Campia,  or  where  he  was  going,  nobody  seemed  to  know.  He  was 
blissfully  happy  to  be  in  his  dear  Italy  once  more.  No  one  paid 
much  attention  to  him,  although  he  talked  continuously  both  in 
Italian  and  broken  English,  little  dreaming  that  there  was  any  one 
present  who  could  understand  the  latter  language.  Nor  did  any 
one  trouble  to  enlighten  him  on  that  point. 

At  last  Tona  came. 

Giacomi,  as  captain  of  the  band,  upbraided  him  whilst  Giacom 
glared  with  reprimanding  blue  eyes.  It  had  been  arranged  earlier 
in  the  day  that  they  should  play,  and  Tona  had  promised  to  come. 
Why  had  he  kept  them  waiting?  Tona  had  a  good  deal  to  say  in 
his  defence,  and  all  three  players  shouted  at  each  other.  The 
bystanders  joined  in,  and  there  was  a  storm  of  words. 

Just  as  I  thought  a  free  fight  must  be  inevitable  it  all  ended  in 
a  laugh. 

To  tell  the  truth,  Tona  had  been  unable  to  tear  himself  away 
from  the  society  of  a  man  from  the  town,  who  had  been  teaching  him 
some  new  tunes. 


250  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

The  players  struck  up  a  polka,  and  we  were  so  eager  to  dance 
and  had  waited  so  long,  that  we  crowded  the  room,  and  couples 
turned  and  bumped  against  other  couples. 

No  one  would  dance  with  the  intoxicated  stranger,  but  that  did 
not  daunt  him.  After  having  begged  every  woman  in  the  room  for 
a  dance — and  been  refused,  he  remained  by  the  wall  watching  the 
others.  During  the  intervals  he  had  the  whole  floor  to  himself  and 
strolled  about,  talking  and  joking  good-naturedly  with  any  one  and 
every  one.  Nobody  encouraged  him,  the  women  were  stiff  and  hardly 
answered.  The  men  watched  him  critically,  ready  to  turn  him  out 
at  the  slightest  indiscretion.  Any  one  in  a  less  blissful  state  of  mind 
would  have  felt  snubbed  !  But  not  he.  He  persisted,  and,  finding 
him  good-humoured  and  irrepressible,  the  women  relented.  They 
began  to  answer  him  back.  Towards  the  end  of  the  evening  he 
dominated  the  intervals,  and  finding  his  audience  at  last  responsive, 
expanded,  becoming  more  and  more  amusing.  But  he  was  not  able 
to  persuade  any  one  to  dance  with  him. 

It  was  not  long  before  Toni  turned  up,  and  with  him  Lucia,  carrying 
little  Emilio.  She  sat  down  on  the  vacant  chair  beside  me,  whilst 
Toni  walked  across  the  room  to  join  the  players. 

I  looked  at  little  Emilio  and  marvelled  at  him.  Lucia  brought 
up  her  children  on  the  survival  of  the  fittest  principle,  and  Emilio 
looked  as  if  he  was  going  to  survive.  He  would  be  the  sixth  survivor 
of  eleven  children. 

Lucia  leant  towards  me  and  whispered  confidentially : — 

'I  hear  you  had  a  quarrel  with  Rosina.' 

'Yes,'  I  answered. 

'I  just  wanted  to  tell  you  that  we  thought  you  would   find  her 


THE  LAST  DAYS  251 

out  in  the  end.  We  know  what  sort  of  a  lady  she  is.'  Lucia 
readjusted  Emilio,  who  was  rapidly  falling  asleep.  'I  don't  want 
to  say  any  more — but  you  understand — we  know  what  she's  like — 
now  you  do.' 

She  glanced  searchingly  at  my  eyes  to  see  if  I  understood  her. 
Satisfied  with  what  she  saw,  she  concentrated  her  attention  on 
Emilio. 

Lucia  did  not  refer  to  the  subject  again.  She  did  not  ask  for 
my  version  of  the  affair,  nor  did  she  say  a  word  about  her  own 
experiences  of  Rosina. 

The  stranger  was  in  the  middle  of  the  room  again.  Taking  his 
blue  silk  pocket-handkerchief  in  one  hand  he  crushed  it  into  a  little 
ball.  Then  he  opened  his  hand  wide,  letting  it  lie  on  his  palm.  The 
handkerchief  slowly  distended  itself,  rebelling  against  such  treat- 
ment. Then  he  wiped  it  off  his  hand  and  held  it  up  for  inspection. 
There  was  not  a  mark,  not  a  crease  on  it.  Truly  a  wonderful  piece 
of  silk  ! 

The  old  woman  had  fetched  a  bowl  of  water  and  was  splashing 
the  brick  floor  again  to  lay  the  dust.  The  players  struck  up. 

'Come  on,  signora,'  said  Filip's  niece,  slipping  off  her  zupei  to 
dance  in  her  stockings. 

'How  is  your  brother  getting  on?'  I  asked.  'Does  he  still  think 
a  soldier's  life  is  too  awful?' 

'Oh,  no,'  she  laughed,  'he  writes  now  that  he  never  enjoyed 
himself  as  much  as  he  does  now.  He  simply  loves  it ! ' 

We  sat  down  together.  The  stranger  walked  across  to  the 
players  and  begged  Giacomi  for  his  mandoline.  Giacomi  did  not  want 
to  give  it  up.  The  stranger  was  obstinate,  having  once  got  it  into 


252  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

his  head  that  he  wanted  to  play.  Nothing  could  stop  him.  They 
tried  to  dissuade  him,  but  he  wouldn't  listen.  He  was  told  not  to 
make  a  fool  of  himself :  there  was  nothing  he  wanted  more.  There 
were  several  offers  to  see  him  home  to  his  lodging.  No  thanks,  he 
wanted  to  play  the  mandoline. 

So  he  sat  down  and  Giacomi  reluctantly  gave  him  his  cherished 
instrument.  Tona,  who  was  good-natured,  agreed  to  accompany  a 
tune  he  had  never  heard  before. 

The  stranger  could  play  well — that  was  evident  to  every  one. 
But  he  was  far  from  sober  now.  The  tune  was  peculiar,  and  every 
now  and  then  he  landed  on  the  wrong  string  and  put  all  our  teeth 
on  edge.  His  style  was  marvellous;  his  flourishes  superb.  Tona, 
who  never  knew  what  was  coming  next,  got  all  wrong  with  his 
rum-tum-tum  accompaniment,  but  remained  passive  and  unruffled. 
The  time  grew  quicker  and  the  tune  weirder. 

'Please/  cried  the  stranger,  in  the  middle  of  a  wild  finale,  'please 
applaud — even  if  you  don't  like  it ! ' 

We  applauded  long  and  loudly. 

The  stranger  stood  up  and  bowed  elegantly.  He  waited  for  the 
applause  to  die  away.  Then  he  bowed  again  and,  pausing  a  second, 
so  as  to  give  it  its  full  effect,  he  said : — 

'  Zank  you  ! '  in  English. 

With  another  flourish  he  handed  the  mandoline  back  to  Giacomi 
who  immediately  struck  up  a  tune. 

Giacomina  danced  with  me,  and  Vittorio  and  Stefen. 

Afterwards  I  rested,  Stefen  by  me  on  the  wood-box. 

'Signora/  he  said,  leaning  down  to  my  level,  'very  probably  I 
shall  be  going  to  America.' 


THE  LAST  DAYS  253 

'You  too— will  you  be  going  with  the  others?' 

'No,  not  until  the  spring,'  he  answered. 

'And  your  wife?' 

'She  says  she  won't  come/  he  answered  in  a  dissatisfied  voice. 

'But  she  ought  to.' 

'She  says  that  she  does  not  want  to.  Her  parents  are  so  old. 
She  does  not  wish  to  leave  them  for  the  few  years  that  remain.  .' 

It  was  true  that  both  Cristofolo  and  Anetta  were  very  old,  but 
so  were  Marget  and  Filip. 

Splash,  splash,  the  old  woman  was  sprinkling  the  floor  rather 
liberally  with  water,  and  I  drew  my  feet  in  under  my  chair. 

'My  parents,'  went  on  Stefen,  'are  also  very  old,  and  I  do  not 
like  to  leave  them — but  how  can  one  live  without  money?' 

'Must  you  really  go?'  I  asked. 

'During  this  year,  signora,  I  have  barely  made  seven  hundred 
lire  (£28),  and  that  is  not  enough.' 

No,  indeed,  and  he  had  a  wife  and  two  children. 

'I  am  sorry  you  are  leaving  us,'  he  said.  'I  had  hoped  to  be 
charcoal-burning  on  the  mountain  whilst  you  were  there — but  with 
all  this  rain  I  never  got  finished  at  the  other  place.' 

The  stranger  was  talking  loudly  to  my  neighbour. 

'In  America,'  he  was  saying,  'it  was  so  dull  that  I  became  a 
hunchback.' 

He  was  trying  to  translate  into  Italian  'it  gave  me  the  hump !' 
Then  he  pulled  out  his  handkerchief  and  went  through  the  trick  of 
crumpling  it. 

'How  is  Conrado  getting  on  in  America?'  I  asked,  turning  to 
Giacomina, 


254  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

'Very  well,'  she  answered,  'he  has  work  and  good  wages.  But 
my  daughter  is  not  at  all  pleased  with  him.  He  doesn't  write  often 
enough  to  her,  so  she  says.  There  is  always  trouble,  signora,  when 
they  get  out  to  America.' 

So  it  seemed.  Raimondo  and  Teresina,  too,  were  at  loggerheads 
again.  This  time  it  was  Raimondo  that  was  angry.  And  I  did  not 
wonder  at  it. 

At  ten  o'clock,  as  soon  as  the  inn  was  closed,  a  few  more  people 
came  in;  Bigi,  Nino,  and  Teresina  amongst  them.  Bigi  was  the  best 
dancer  in  the  village,  although  big  Giuseppe  had  been  a  better  dancer 
in  his  day.  All  the  men  danced  well,  and  so  did  most  of  the  women, 
Stefen  and  Nino,  perhaps,  being  not  quite  up  to  the  mark.  Nino 
looked  a  bit  odd,  dancing  with  slightly  bent  knees,  and  his  chin  in 
the  air.  But  he  was  nice  to  dance  with,  except  when  he  trod  on  your 
toes.  That  was  a  trick  Gaetano  also  had  had. 

'And  you  are  really  going  back  to  England?'  Toni  asked,  during 
an  interval,  resting  his  hands  on  his  guitar. 

'Yes,  I  really  am,'  I  answered,  'but  I  mean  to  come  back  and 
see  you  all  again.' 

'We  shall  never  see  you  again,'  Toni  answered. 

'  But  the  signora  says  she  is  coming  back  ! '  interposed  Ghita. 

'People  always  say  they  will,'  said  Toni,  'but  they  never  come.' 

Giacomi  twanged  his  mandoline  and  the  others  got  ready  for 
the  last  polketta.  I  danced  with  Nino.  Afterwards,  instead  of 
dispersing,  we  all  stood  talking.  Bigi  was  joking  with  Angelina  and 
Filip's  niece,  and  I  was  noticing  how  very  elbowy  his  gestures  were 
— just  like  Cristofolo's.  I  scarcely  heeded  what  Nino  was  saying. 
Costante  and  Vittorio  were  dancing  round  and  round  in  a  circle. 


THE  LAST  DAYS  255 

Ghita  was  searching  desperately  for  one  of  her  zupei,  which  she  had 
taken  off  for  dancing,  and  which  had  somehow  found  its  way  into 
Faustino's  pocket. 

I  suddenly  became  attentive  and  turned  to  Nino.  Wonder  of 
wonders,  he  was  offering  to  lend  me  his  house  ! 

'Signora,'  he  was  saying,  'should  you  come  to  Italy  whilst  we 
are  in  America,  remember  that  our  house  always  stands  ready  for 
you.  You  need  only  fetch  the  key  from  my  sister's,  and  it  will  be  yours. ' 

'You  can  have  the  house  for  as  long  as  you  like  whilst  we  are 
away,'  said  Teresina. 

'We  should  consider  it  an  honour/  continued  Nino.  'In  any 
case  you  can  always  reckon  on  a  bedroom  when  we  are  here — we  could 
always  put  you  up.' 

'Of  course  for  no  payment,'  said  Teresina,  so  that  that  should 
be  quite  clear. 

I  thanked  them  as  best  I  could,  deeply  touched  by  this  kindness. 
There  was  no  doubt  they  were  in  earnest.  They  were  ready  to  lend 
me  their  house  and  all  their  things. 

'We  mean  it,'  said  Teresina  simply.  She  gave  me  a  triumphant 
look.  She  was  saying  jubilantly  to  herself ,  'Now  we  are  quits.' 

But  I  was  feeling  that  after  all  I  was  the  debtor. 

The  next  morning  we  left  San  Lorenzo,  in  plenty  of  time,  so  I 
thought,  to  catch  the  9.15.  Filip  had  taken  our  luggage  down  earlier 
in  the  morning  and  was  to  meet  us  at  the  station.  Rosina,  Pina,  and 
Angelina  walked  down  with  us. 

About  half-way  Rosina  stopped  and  pointed  to  some  smoke  in 
the  distance. 


256  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

'Ah!  your  train,'  she  cried,  in  a  voice  of  consternation.  'You 
will  never  catch  it.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  it  will  be  at  the  station. 
.  .  .  Let  us  turn  back.' 

'We  must  try  to  catch  it,'  I  answered,  and  began  to  run.  We  all 
ran.  It  was  imperative  to  catch  the  train,  which  was  the  only  one 
that  connected  with  the  express  on  the  main  line.  To  lose  it  meant 
twenty-four  hours'  delay. 

We  hurried  down  the  road,  which  seemed  interminable,  Rosina 
expostulating.  She  tripped  up  on  the  way,  tore  her  dress,  and  cut 
her  knee,  but  she  got  up  and  ran  on.  Hot  and  breathless  we  arrived 
at  the  station  at  the  same  moment  as  the  train.  I  rushed  to  buy  the 
tickets.  There  was  hardly  a  moment  for  farewells.  Angelina  hurriedly 
kissed  us  on  both  cheeks.  We  mounted  the  train,  and  our  luggage 
was  bundled  in  after  us.  I  thrust  all  the  silver  in  my  purse  into  Filip's 
big  hand.  There  was  no  time  to  count  out  what  I  owed  him  for 
bringing  our  luggage.  The  train  began  to  move.  One  last  handshake 
through  the  window,  and  we  were  off. 

I  could  never  make  up  my  mind  whether  it  was  Bortolo  or  Rosina 
who  put  the  clock  back  half  an  hour  that  morning. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

AMERICA 

SINCE  the  days  when  Campia  men  first  went  out  to  America,  con- 
ditions in  the  village  had  somewhat  improved.  There  was  more 
ready  money  about.  But  hand-in-hand  with  better  times  went 
increased  expenses.  The  vines  required  a  great  deal  more  care  since 
the  phylloxera  plague,  and  that  meant  greater  expenditure  hi  money 
as  well  as  labour.  Prices,  too,  had  risen.  Little  wonder  that  the 
men,  finding  the  future  to  hold  no  promise,  turned  their  thoughts 
to  America.  A  journey  there  was  becoming  as  inevitable  as  military 
service. 

But  this  money  from  America  was  by  no  means  a  solution  to  the 
economic  problem.  A  man  seldom  remained  long  enough  to  save 
a  sum  sufficient  for  the  next  generation.  He  tried  to  make  his  savings 
last  as  long  as  he  lived — but  his  son  would  have  to  go  to  America 
in  his  turn.  And  as  long  as  the  men  came  back  and  spent  their 
savings  in  Italy,  the  Government  would  hardly  do  otherwise  than 
encourage  it.  For  in  this  way  money  was  brought  to  the  impoverished 
villages,  and  made  life  there  possible. 

Unfortunately  it  is  no  longer  so  easy  a  matter  to  make  money 
in  the  States,  and  the  stricter  laws  in  regard  to  aliens  passed  by  the 
United  States  Government,  put  new  difficulties  in  the  way  of  would-be 

fortune  hunters. 

257 


258  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

I  could  not  help  wondering  why  nothing  was  done  to  improve 
the  conditions  at  home.  The  peasants  were  not  at  all  ignorant  of 
agriculture,  and  especially  in  the  care  of  vines  were  quite  up-to-date. 
They  did  not  seem  to  understand  the  care  of  live-stock  so  well. 
Bortolo  frankly  told  me  that  fowls  would  die  if  kept  in  runs.  No 
doubt  they  would  if  he  had  the  care  of  them.  Moreover,  the  cost 
of  wire  netting  appalled  him,  and  an  incubator  had  never  been  seen 
in  Campia. 

It  was  on  the  vines  and  olives  the  peasants  pinned  all  their  faith. 
Wine  played  such  an  important  part  in  their  diet  that  they  could 
not  do  without  it.  It  took  with  them  the  place  of  tea  and  coffee. 
It  was  the  custom  to  grow  vines — so  they  grew  them.  I  do  not 
know  what  else  they  could  have  grown.  Peasants  cannot  learn  things 
from  books,  and  there  was  no  one  in  the  village  to  show  them  by 
example  nor  any  one  who  came  there  to  teach.  Perhaps  there  is 
nothing  it  would  pay  to  grow  that  would  mature  before  the  August 
hailstorms.  .  .  . 

Charcoal-burning  and  lime-burning  were  both  sources  of  additional 
income,  but  they  could  only  be  plied  in  moderation.  As  it  was,  the 
copses  were  cut  for  charcoal  as  fast  as  they  grew,  and  when  it  came 
to  lime-burning,  the  supply  of  lime  exceeded  the  demand.  Besides, 
a  lime-kiln  needed  such  a  quantity  of  fuel.  The  culture  of  silkworms 
also  helped  to  swell  the  income  of  many  families,  but  it  was  not  work 
undertaken  willingly.  No  trade  nor  handicraft,  other  than  spinning 
and  knitting,  was  practised  in  the  village.  The  women  did  not 
know  how  to  weave,  and  it  was  exceptional  if  they  were  able  to 
make  their  own  clothes.  Although  most  houses  had  an  oven  for  the 
purpose,  nobody  baked  bread,  but  perhaps  lack  of  fuel  accounted 


AMERICA  259 

for  that.  However,  in  every  house,  Italian  paste  was  made  for 
home  use,  and,  of  course,  wine. 

The  olives,  which  were  never  destroyed  by  the  hail  to  such  an 
extent  as  the  grapes,  were  taken  to  the  co-operative  society  in  the 
town,  where  the  oil  was  extracted.  The  olives  brought  by  each  were 
kept  apart  and  the  oil  extracted  separately;  some  olives  being 
richer  in  oil  and  therefore  of  more  value.  One  luckless  man,  whose 
trees  stood  on  poor  soil,  and  had  suffered  from  drought,  once  brought 
a  cartload  of  olives  to  the  society.  Not  a  drop  of  oil  would  they 
yield — so,  at  least,  I  was  told  by  Nino. 

The  other  crops  were  maize,  beans,  and  a  small  quantity  of  wheat. 
The  sweet  chestnuts  were  usually  taken  to  market,  but  fruit  for 
home  consumption,  such  as  apples,  pears,  peaches,  figs,  almonds,  and 
cherries,  were  very  plentiful.  Mulberries  were  despised  and  never 
picked.  Strawberries  were  unknown. 

The  signor  on  the  mountain,  who  was  Campia's  representative  on 
the  Town  Council,  did  not  interest  himself  in  the  economic  problems 
of  the  village.  When  I  spoke  to  him  about  the  hailstorm,  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  said:  'They  can  go  to  America.'  As  far  as  he 
was  concerned  the  matter  ended  there. 

In  former  times,  some  of  the  peasants  had  kept  the  wolf  from 
the  door  by  carrying  on  a  brisk  trade  in  contraband.  The  frontier 
was  not  far  off.  Nowadays  it  was  too  risky  for  any  but  the  most 
daring.  One  man,  however,  regularly  visited  the  village,  secretly 
selling  tobacco  and  sugar  to  thoroughly  trustworthy  customers.  He 
had  got  these  things  through  from  Switzerland — La  Sguissera,  as 
Campia  called  it — recklessly  incurring  the  penalty  of  imprisonment. 

A  peasant  from  the  town,  a  man  of  the  last  generation,  had  made 


260  AMONG  ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

a  fortune  dealing  in  contraband.  Towards  the  end  of  his  life,  he 
was  the  richest  man  in  the  town,  and  built  himself  a  beautiful  house 
there.  He  invested  his  money  in  several  successful  commercial 
enterprises.  He  did  a  great  deal  for  the  poor,  and  supported  various 
charities.  It  was  no  secret  that  he  had  been  a  smuggler.  The  grateful 
townsfolk  have  erected  a  monument  to  his  memory.  His  daughters 
still  live  in  the  beautiful  house,  and  are  said  to  be  fabulously  rich. 
I  became  acquainted  with  their  chauffeur.  He  was  a  languid  little 
man,  with  dainty  hands,  adorned  with  rings,  looking  half  asleep,  but 
really  very  wide  awake.  He  sometimes  came  to  San  Lorenzo  with 
his  friends.  I  think  he  must  have  studied  some  branch  of  engineering, 
for  he  had  once  made  a  tour  in  Wales,  inspecting  the  coal  mines. 

After  all,  it  was  not  altogether  impossible  for  a  peasant  to  get  on 
and  even  do  comparatively  well  if  he  stayed  at  home.  But  it  needed 
hard  work  and  rigid  economy.  It  was  necessary,  however,  in  order 
to  reach  this  happy  state,  to  work  continually.  There  could  be  no 
thought  of  a  rest  on  Sundays.  Clothes  would  have  to  be  patched, 
food  be  of  the  simplest,  and  the  spending  of  every  palanca  con- 
sidered. And  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  add  that  it  was  only  possible 
to  those  blessed  with  very  small  families. 

A  man  in  the  village  was  working  himself  to  death  in  this  way. 
Probably  in  his  case,  the  desire  for  gain  had  passed  from  thrift  to 
avarice.  There  were  not  many  who  would  work  thus  with  no 
pleasures  but  the  counting  of  halfpence. 

•  •••••• 

In  the  States,  the  peasants  usually  stayed  together  with  others 
of  their  own  nationality,  so  that  they  came  very  little  in  contact 
with  Americans.  Very  few  of  them  seemed  to  like  the  life  there, 


AMERICA  261 

and  worked  hard  in  order  to  make  the  stay  as  short  as  possible.  Every 
spare  palanca  was  put  by,  and  next  to  nothing  spent  on  pleasures. 

When  Gioan,  Nino,  and  Bortolo  were  in  California,  economy 
prompted  them  to  live  in  a  cabin  with  three  other  Campte  men. 
They  did  their  own  housekeeping  and  cooking.  Gioan  baked  the 
bread.  Nino  and  Bortolo  were  both  ardent  sportsmen— whenever 
the  larder  was  empty  they  would  get  up  before  sunrise,  and  bag  a 
few  birds  before  going  off  to  work  in  the  gold  mines.  The  life  must 
have  agreed  with  them,  for  they  grew  fat  and  looked  uncommonly 
well,  as  a  photograph  taken  at  the  time  testifies.  Unfortunately  that 
well-nourished  look  had  soon  worn  off  on  their  return  to  Campia. 
Polenta  is  fattening,  but  it  does  not  nourish  like  bread. 

When  the  Fourth  of  July  came  round,  the  six  men  thought  they 
would  enjoy  themselves,  and  agreed  to  spend  the  day  in  the  nearest 
town,  and  in  order  to  save  the  railway  fare,  decided  to  walk.  I  think 
they  must  have  had  a  very  hazy  idea  of  the  distance.  Campia 
fashion,  they  set  off  at  dawn.  They  walked  on  and  on  ...  and  on. 
It  was  not  before  midday  that  they  reached  the  town.  Exhausted, 
hungry,  and  thirsty,  they  found  their  way  to  an  eating  house,  and 
afterwards  to  a  shady  spot  where  they  slept. 

They  woke  up  just  in  time  to  catch  the  last  train  home. 

Thus  passed  the  Fourth  of  July,  the  only  holiday  until  Christmas, 
for  they  worked  both  week-days  and  Sundays. 

Christmas  Day  they  decided  to  spend  at  home.  Feeling  home- 
sick, they  thought  they  would  celebrate  the  occasion  by  drinking 
some  wine.  Some  real  red  wine,  such  as  they  bad  not  tasted  for 
months.  They  put  their  money  together  and  bought  some.  It  was 
port.  Thinking  of  la  bella  Italia  they  tossed  it  off  as  they  would 


262  AMONG   ITALIAN  PEASANTS 

the  wine  of  their  own  country.     The  result  was  lamentable.     They 
were  horrified  to  find  that  only  a  little  of  it  made  them  drunk.  .  .  . 

In  October,  shortly  after  we  left  for  England,  seven  men  left 
Campia  for  America.  They  were  Agostino,  who  was  now  old  enough 
to  travel  alone,  Marco,  who  had  been  the  signer's  cowman,  Faustino's 
youngest  son,  who  had  just  finished  his  military  training,  Biscotti, 
and  an  uncle  of  Giacomi's.  These  five  went  direct  to  New  York. 
Stefen  did  not  go.  Perhaps  Dominica,  who  was  always  ready  to 
give  a  helping  hand  to  her  relatives,  made  it  possible  for  him  to  stay. 

Nino  and  Bertoldi — both  one-eyed  men — sailed  for  Canada. 
They  worked  their  way  south,  to  Buffalo,  where  they  succeeded  hi 
crossing  the  frontier.  Then  they  made  their  way  to  Pennsylvania, 
where  Raimondo,  Gaetano,  and  many  others,  were  at  work.  They 
arrived  at  Christmas,  very  much  the  worse  for  wear,  having  suffered 
terribly  from  the  cold,  for  which  they  were  most  unsuitably  clad. 

'We  had  all  sorts  of  adventures,'  wrote  Nino,  'here  it  is  less  bad, 
but  it  is  much  better  to  be  in  Campia — because  of  these  benedette 
palanche  I  have  to  put  up  with  every  sort  of  trial.' 

Fortunately  there  was  plenty  of  work,  so  for  a  time  all  went  well. 
The  following  March,  Nino  was  able  to  send  his  wife  the  money  for 
her  fare,  and  early  in  April  she  made  the  journey  with  her  little  boy. 
Poor  Teresina  liked  America  even  less  than  she  had  expected. 

'This  is  an  ugly  place,'  she  wrote  from  the  coal  mines  of  Penn- 
sylvania. 'Here  we  are  in  a  desert,  deprived  of  every  amusement. 
I  do  not  willingly  remain  in  America.' 

Nino's  temporary  good  fortune  soon  turned.  Poor  fellow,  he  was 
always  so  unlucky  that  if  he  had  taken  to  hair-dressing,  people 


AMERICA  263 

would  surely  have  been  born  without  heads.  In  August  war  broke 
out  in  Europe.  As  a  result  the  coal  mines  were  partially  closed. 
For  a  time  Nino  worked  three  days  a  week.  Afterwards  he  had  no 
work  at  all,  but  lived  on  his  savings,  feeling  more  and  more  desperate 
as  they  dwindled  away.  Teresina  gave  birth  to  a  baby,  another 
little  boy,  red-haired  like  his  excellent  aunt,  the  wife  of  Giacom. 
Nino  was  still  without  work.  In  despair  they  moved  to  another 
town,  but  fresh  disappointments  awaited  them  there.  As  a  last 
hope  Nino  borrowed  money,  and  they  crossed  the  continent  to 
California,  to  the  gold  mines  where  he  had  worked  during  his  former 
stay.  On  the  day  of  arrival  Battisti  fell  ill  and  for  a  fortnight  added 
to  the  anxiety  of  his  already  distracted  parents.  Then  he  recovered. 
Nino  found  a  job  at  last,  but  not  a  very  remunerative  one.  Many 
months  and  perhaps  years  will  pass  before  he  will  be  able  to  bring 
Teresina  back  to  Campia.  Meanwhile  the  house  stands  temptingly 
empty — but  it  is  too  near  the  frontier  for  us  to  venture  there. 


and  Venezia  at  the  mercy  of  the  in- 
vader. It  was  over  the  Brenner 
passes  and  across  the  Julian  Alps 
that  barbarian  invasion  had  come  as 
far  back  as  Roman  times.  Now,  by 
the  treaty  of  Saint  Germain  and  of 
Rapallo,  Italy  has  a  natural  frontier 
salient  along  the  crest  of  the  Rha- 
tian  and  Julian  Alps  that  completes 
her  unity  and  gives  her  security.  More 
than  twelve  roads  could  be  used  for 
invasion  under  the  prewar  frontier. 
Only  four,  easily  defendable,  exist  now. 

*  * 

Many  New  Inhabitants. 

The  frontiers  and  the  Adriatic  have 
been  looked  upon  in  the  past  as  storm 
centers  because  of  the  minority  races 
existing  behind  them.  Signor  Mus- 
solini recently  spoke  of  the  "  war  in 
the  east,"  in  addressing  the  Leghorn 
cadets,  and  Senator  Ricci  named  the 
Adriatic  a«J  one  of  the  outstanding 
questions  between  France  and  Italy. 
By  that  he  meant  the  question  of  de- 
fending the  low  sandy  littoral  of  Italy 
against  the  rocky  Island  fringed  Dal- 
matian coast  of  Jugoslavia,  backed  by 
a  French  alliance. 

By  the  peace  treaties  Italy  got  2,237,- 
COO  new  inhabitants,  nearly  half  of  a 
different  race,  and  over  11,500  square 
kilometers  of  territory  which  was 
form»d  into  th<»,  provinces  of  Bolzano, 
Trento  and  TTdine  to  the  north,  and 
Gorizia,  Treste,  Istria,  Fiume,  and 
Zara  to  the  northeast  and  east. 

In  the  south  Tyrol  [Bolzano  and 
Trento]  the  frontier  was  advanced 

from  the  Carnic  to  the  Rhatian  Alps. 
The  reasons  for  this  annexation  were 
largely  strategic.  North  of  Trento 
the  population  was  nearly  all  German. 
But  through  those  passes  at  the  Bren- 
ner Italy  has  always  seen  her  enemies 
ppproach.  The  Tyrol  was  the  key  to 
Italy.  The  Romans  had  held  and  for- 
tified its  mountains  against  the  Goths, 
Jhe  Hohenstauffens  had  descended 
Through  the  Brenner  to  batter  at  the 
Avails  of  Milan;  the  district  had  been 
the  battleground  throughout  the  mid- 
dle ages  of  popes  and  emperors;  the 
fcrea  was  so  strong  that  the  counts 
•f  Tyrol  were  able  to  assert  their  in- 
dependence from  their  mountain  cas- 
tles and  defy  their  mightier  neighbors 
In  Austria  and  Bavaria.  One  of  these 
Castles  is  noted  for  its  association  with 
Margaret  Maultasch,  the  famous  ugly 
<duchess. 

*  * 

The  Envy  of  Nations. 

From  time  immemorial,  in  fact,  the 
fertile  valley  in  the  heart  of  the  moun- 
tains bounded  by  Bolzano  and  Merano 
has  been  the  envy  of  surrounding 
countries  and  its  history  largely  the 
history  of  international  relations. 
"Waves  of  soldiers  have  poured  down 
through  it  to  get  possession  of  Italy 


PXIKTED    IN   GREAT   BRITAIN 


how  to  rehabiltate  and  reshape  the 
economic  life  of  those  provinces  which 
depended  on  the  Danube  hinterhand 
with  which  they  formerly  constituted 
an  economic  and  administrative  unity. 

With  the  Germans  in  the  Tyrol,  the 
economic  problem  is  not  the  principal 
one.  There  the  tourist  industry  is 
the  chief  source  of  wealth.  In  the 
Venezia  Giulia,  however,  including  the 
towns  of  Trieste  and  Fiume,  the  prob- 
lem is  mainly  economic.  To  sustain 
these  two  cities,  Italy  requires  close 
relations  with  the  Balkans  to  get  the 
Balkan  business  men  to  use  the  Adri- 
atic ports  as  its  outlet.  For  strategic 
boundaries  here  do  not  coincide  with 
economic  ones. 

*      * 
East  Coast  Defenseless. 

Italy's  east  coast  on  the  Adriatic 
is  practically  defenseless.  The  littoral 
is  low  and  sandy  and  has  not  that 
line  of  mountains  and  fringe  of  an- 
fractuous Islands  which  characterizes 
the  opposite  coast  in  Dalmatia.  This 
is  always  in  the  background  of  Ital- 
ian naval  thought. 

Furthermore,  it  takes  six  hours  to 
cross  the  Appenines  from  Rome  to 
Ancona,  the  only  harbor  of  any  value 
between  Venice  and  Bari.  Like  Brin- 
disi,  it  is  fortified  and  has  an  arsenal. 
Once  its  port  receipts  from  trade 
with  the  near  east  were  heavy.  Re- 
cently I  counted  only  twelve  small 


ited  wholly  by  Albanians. 
settled  there  in  the  old  d 
the  Croats  by  the  Vene 
told.  I  walked  back  t 
through  a  wide  avenue 
trees  which  made  a  gre< 
under  the  electric  street 
Viennese  waltzes  and  '. 
opera  music  was  still  gc 
on  the  promenade. 

The  town  seemed  pictu 
believable  like  a  tiny  oper 
or  a  little  isolated  city  ol 
would  certainly  be  ideal 
seeking  something  out  of 
a  cheap  vacation.  The  b 
the  Hotel  Bristol  cost  8€ 

I  stopped  in  a  bookston 
an  Italian  paper  printed  1 
in  Zara.  Across  the  top 
manent  banner  line  sayii 
remember  that  the  whole 
is  Italian  soil."  Officially 
only  Zara,  but  unofficially 
constantly  lay  claim  to 
coast.  — - 


were 

offset 
I  was 

bote' 
.  witV 
;anop> 
.  The 
light 
Q  over 

ely  tin- 
ingdom 
put.  It 
tourists 
way  for 
aoms  in 
y  cents. 
.  bought 

a  week 
3  a  per- 

Italians 
Dalmatia 
y  claims 

Fascist! 
e  whole 


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